A small black feather floated cresting a hill of warmth landmarking invisible currents Soft pelted, mammal night - & evening birds whistle the moon to rise, remind Lorca’s stars that the frogs are missing them. Between Dvorak’s movements a sudden spate of coughing. Spring pollens pervade theatre noses. The dogs are in voice between curtains and palings telling tales of the falling dark. Another year drips to a close. The ground is pocked with tiny eyelets, footprints of a wet spring.