I’m washing dishes when I spot them—
another spring surprise, suddenly arrived.
They seem to make their campground
in the same space every year, half way
down the south hill. I never see them
marching into place. But you can tell
that’s what they were doing. They come
before the grasses and the rest of the green
and settle at the base of the ancient maple.
There they stop, raise their lemon-lime flags,
and laugh until the sound grabs you: Hello!
I dry my hands, pull on my boots,
and climb the hill to greet them—today’s
gift—to let them know I heard them
shouting out their song and to share
with them this draft of welcome joy.