Black birds, both yellow headed and red-winged,
Wood swallows dark blue, white, flit around me,
ducks cross the pond, geese squawk, meadowlarks sing,
In all directions so much to see.
Virga veils of snow drag across the far peaks
Pushed by a fast front. Sun slits light trees white,
Golden fields green in spring’s first wet week,
Puddles of black beside their mothers lie.
My big white dog explores with her nose
“seeing” more than I do. “So much to smell!”
“Good girl!” Ditch gates open, the water flows
Across land that’s begun to thaw. Man’s help.
The wind stops. A red-tail soars. The world stills.
My dog leans against me. Our souls filled.
This is a Shakespearean sonnet, more or less. 14 lines, ababcdcdefefgg. Iambic pentameter (10 syllable lines with the stress on every other syllable, but I’m not a fetishist about that). The final six lines are supposed to set up a situation established by or counter to the first 8 lines. I’m not big on rules, though, other than the rhyme and syllable thing. I’m writing sonnets as a mental challenge, mostly, but one in a while one might be good.