We open the windows
let air in. The smells come in.
(There are smells
again now.) Robins are everywhere.
The compost stinks.
I sink into mud past my ankle
lose my boot pulling out,
lose traction, but
(but the ruts never throw you
off the road, only take you home
in a way different than you thought
you were going. It isn't like ice),
it isn't like winter.

The ground sighs beneath me,
opens beneath me. The cows are mudded
nose to tail, the calf kicking,
the chickens sunning themselves
on the final banks of snow.

The robin perched in the compost pile
singing.