A Sprung Spring

 A Sprung Spring

 

Written with words coined from the imagination…

There are hidants emerging from the bitumenilious.

Sprizzards blow, a flytilla of snain, a rave of snurf and prain in the wingways.

Somewhere in the skyre,  flightning flashes, a beatonme rumbles.

There birds flit in the trilagree, flegs shelter under the spree.

One day it’s 29 degrees, the next 79.

What to make of this cheather?

Is it galarming? Clange?

Something says spring has sprung, but, in this way, it’s a bit alarming.

And translated…

There are hidden things emerging from the billowy, dark clouds.

Spring blizzards fly like migrating birds, they’re snow turning to rain.

They’re a rough wave like snowy surf and pouring rain in the bird migration paths.

Somewhere in the fiery sky, a flash of lightning, a drum beat of thunder.

Birds fly through the filagree of tree branches.

Four-legged animals shelter under the spruce trees.

One day it’s 29 degrees, the next 79.

What to make of this changing weather?

Is it global warming, climate change?

Something says spring has sprung, but, in this way, it’s a bit alarming.