Spring

 /   /  By Emma Birches
Stone Soup Magazine
March/April 2014

By Isabelle Zeaske

The grove of royal white birches
I’ve always loved
Casts intricate shadows
On the pavement below.
Black on black
Like deer running at night.
A young fern sprout
Catches my eye.
Something shines
But nothing moves.
An old plastic bag
Flutters limply in the breeze
From the high limb of a pine
Like winter’s flag of surrender.
The rhythmic snap
Of the bag
Is drowned out
By the soft song
Of a faraway
Chickadee.

Spring Isabelle Zeaske

Isabelle Zeaske, 10
Minneapolis, Minnesota

About the Author

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