The birds are singing to one another now,
They do not sing to us,
But we are listening.
New buds are growing slowly on the ends of branches,
Displacing ever so slightly the air around them,
Coming to our ears as a low hum,
And we wonder:
To how many monsoons could this movement be traced
Many years from now?
The water runs slowly but steadily from the melting patches of ice and snow,
Carrying with it
Matter in decay and colonies of microscopic life that have grown and died,
Food and hydration for the next generations,
One in the same flow.
In and out and…
We are happy,
The process has begun.
The world begins
To awaken once more,
Eyes opening to
Distant clouds gather but
For now there is sun.
The world waits
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