Though the mercury floats at thirty-three,
I’ve cracked open the bedroom window,
inviting in the faint murmur
of the small fountain just outside.
It awakens for an hour each afternoon,
awakens as the sun graces its solar panel
at that precise, fateful angle,
and the sound of moving water
leaps suddenly into existence.
A transient hymn of spring, soft and pleasing,
in stark contrast to winter’s raspy breath
whispering frost-kissed secrets
along the fringes of awareness.
The Truth About Tigers 
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