Spring in the suburbs

slanted shadows straining through fence slats
the last claws of winter
come to take back their snowfields

the steady trickle of the great melt

a stumbling fly blunders onto my windshield
as I sit eating fries at McDonalds
supplanted by the scavenging seagull
who watches me carefully
hand to mouth, hand to mouth
I save one big fry for him, but too late
he flies away disgustedly
I call out the window “Jonathan!”
no answer, so I eat the fry

I walk through the sad streets
no budding beauty yet
gutters lined with November’s remnants
flattened paper cups and bags and cans

in the heatwave of 7 degrees Celsius
smells of spring their aromas bring
the backyard carpet of fermented leaves you thought you had raked
the sick fruity smell of pickled dog dew
the shoe sucking mud
a compost of roots and grass and bugs and worms
just waiting to push up those hyacinth bulbs
if the eager squirrels don’t get them first
the black stew leaching from your eavestroughs

the final deluge on the dirty grey banks of snow
as the furious sump pump overheats in the basement

all of this miasma of rot
from which comes our most glorious time of the year