The sandhill cranes
silver white fighter bombers
in electro-trilling V-formations
are returning
and in town
the ice cream shop windows
are still covered,
but there’s a van outside
and the service door
is open
and the local deli
has switched their daily
soup choices
from stews and chili
to spring vegetable curries
and brothy mushroom affairs
and in my garage
each time I have to run out
I stare longingly
at a new box of string
lights, 48 feet long
full of eleven watt stars
that will run from the hook
on my back porch
to the hook on the maple
by the firepit.