Mud March

March flexes now a brawny arm

To set the stage for spring.

You lie and listen to the wind;

You hear the hammer's ring;

The rhythimc shearing of a plane,

The snarling of a saw;

You wonder what is going on

In this wild williwaw.

But March can spare no hour

Of night to pave the way

For the April carrousel

And flowering of May.

Aloft, in mad rehersal,

A lark is on the wing,

Lone herald of fiesta days

and bold enough to sing.