on this day, the throats of birds convulsing,
worms splitting ground in tune with ululation
like siren song, swimming the dew, wanting
to be caught, hoping to escape, breaking
themselves for autonomous multiplicity,

something in me searching something out here
in the cold, before the heat, before the world
remembered it was expected
to rise. 

              This year is different.
              This year I prepare
              to sleep, content 

              it will rise
              all the same.