A Different Season

Does the river flow so softly, 

may it belong to those who chant, 

who scream its name.

The buds of last spring wring their necks, 

the water dripping, 

drying and soaking once more. 

Rabbits scurry, 

scatter, 

from once that it mattered. 

A soft song, 

played from the bird who sits, 

atop it he rings, 

for the welcoming of spring.