It's the change of seasons.
We can tell by nature's painful transition.
A gloomy void of frozen water,
And cloudy days.
Cold rain.
Tree blossoms.
Life after Death,
Or perhaps,
Hybernation of the loving season.
The sun wakes and brings the coming spring,
A little closer with every blink of sunlight,
When it decides to show.
Birds clear the chorus.
I envy them so...
Able to sing with the harshest conditions challenging them.
Fond memories of the sitting rock.
They could not come sooner,
And the days won't hurt.