Rain falls on a February morning

Freezing into spears before it hits the ground.

He dodges the drops among the trees

As if he’s playing a game with mother nature.

Who’s winning now? 

The melting snow squishes beneath his feet

And he looks down 

To see the remnants of rotten, dark leaves 

Under the white mush

Crunch every so slightly against his heel

But more yielding than in their gaudy prime. 

Has mother nature become more yielding to me?

Can I say that I have truthfully conquered the wild?

The rain falls

To spite him,

To tease him.

Winter is not over yet.

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