Rain pelts the air
at an angry slant.
                                The crocuses’ steady rhythm
                                keeps me on task.

Soon we will gladden our pores,
ephemeral fur preparing to shed
                                                            my smooth velvet horns,
                                                            itching to sprout.

I’m looking to be sun-washed,
parading perimeters
                                      healed in yet another blank field’s
                                      vivid-green space.

For this I thank my autonomous hide.
I thank my wild intrepid spark.
                                                         How I stroll back roads primed
                                                         with nothing but my stag-sized heart,  

my clumsy tangle of forward limbs,
this earth a ripened fruit
                                             its sweetness warming,
                                             waiting.