MINSTREL WEATHER 



stands calm in winds and bitter weather; 

 waist-deep in snow, it proudly holds its 

 ground. Sap is visibly climbing to the 

 highest limbs. It seems even to be 

 mounting in the ancient wild-grape vines 

 that swing from the roof of the wood, 

 bearing no buds and looking dead a hun- 

 dred years, though there is life beneath 

 the somber and shaggy bark. Sap called 

 back through the ducts of the winter- 

 warped thorn, solitary in the clearing 

 where the cruel nor'easter raced, will 

 cover the sad branches, once the soft 

 days are here, with shining blossoms. The 

 year turns when the sap runs. Little boys 

 who have their sugar maples picked out 

 and under guard, being more forehanded 

 about some things than others, are whit- 

 tling intensely. 



Loneliest of all sounds, the "peepers" 

 take up their forsaken song in flooded 

 meadows, silenced in ghostly fashion by a 

 footstep that comes near. Heartbroken 

 chant, it is more elegy than spring song, 

 hard to hear at dusk, yet it is certain that 

 those peepers are delighted that March 

 is here as content with their fate, while 

 they utter the poignant notes, as the em- 



[16] 



