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Ross Murray's Border Report
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Ross Murray
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is a freelance writer living in Stanstead, Quebec. You can reach him at ross_murray@sympatico.ca
Posted 03.24.09
Stanstead, Quebec

ROSS MURRAY

The rots of spring

Spring. Say it with me: it's spring, yes it is.
The sun's beating down, giving winter the biz.
On lawns are the remnants of past snowstorms' snow forts,
Which people pass by wearing premature sport shorts.

Cold? Oh, you betcha. It's still plenty frigid,
Just not quite so chilled as to make hairdos rigid.
When early spring rises, then temperature's relative.
Let's all head outside, greet the sunshine, feel well-ative!

Snow. Lots of snow. It'll be here for months
In corners, in ditches, in big piles and dumpths.
Not everywhere though; it's in some places gone:
Where men have gone bonkers and shoveled their lawns.

Walking. We're walking. We're to-ing and fro-ing.
We're out in the evening. Just look at us going!
We're waving at neighbours, we're shouting "Hey, howdy-do?"
We're sloshing in puddles, we're side-stepping doggie-doo.

People. They're happy. In much better moods.
Especially when snacking on barbecued foods
(Though getting that grill on sure took some rehearsing,
Plus scraping and poking and shaking and cursing).

Look. Can't you see it? There's fresh hung-out laundry
(But not so much drying as stiff - quite the quandary).
There's kids playing ball and a passel of squirrels
There's that creep by the wall keenly ogling girls.

Sap. Running sap. From the taps it is dripping.
The workers shlep buckets. (Be careful, no tripping!)
The market this year seals the industry's fate.
A glut? Or a drought? Aww, I can't keep it straight...

Brown. Kind of grey. True, it's not very bloomy.
But anything's better than days dark and gloomy.
It's too soon for crocuses (or maybe it's croci)
But this is prime season for gunk, sludge and fungi.

Sound. Can you hear it? That sure sound of spring?
Is it children with mudpies? Or birds on the wing?
Is it sump-pumps a-glumping or a defrosting toad?
No: that dirt bike again, raising hell on my road!

Fever. Spring fever. Though early, you know it.
This fever makes everyone think he's a poet.
"Oh joy, what a season!" we swoon with a smile.
But there's more snow a-coming; we're just in denial.

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