April has been characteristically brief,

coming in on a promise, but somehow

always circling the point.

Taconic streams swollen by the melting mountains

push impatiently against matted leaves and fallen

branches that seem to belong somewhere else.

Nightfall is a gentle rushing on the forest floor

and the piercing laughter of predators that slip through shadows

and edge along the lake where moonlight descends.

One day, April is icy, grasping and resolute.

Another time, the impudent, golden reach of forsythia

arches against the likelihood across gunmetal gray skies.

April ice can slip in unexpectedly with the sinking sun

to swallow tender sprouts like a crusty tumor.

Ice lays waste to fragile shoots on old wood.

In the end, the ice in April is every bit as fragile

as those new buds setting out a plan for summer.

These gnarled bones of birches have lasted another winter.