It is now mostly spring,
Momma birds are ’bout done waiting
For the use of those majestic wings.
The strong winds ruffle fur and feathers,
Hence the want for a change of weather.
Underfoot no dry mud crumbles,
Or snow, or leaves for that little rumble.
A few folks found a four-leafed clover,
With a hive of bees hovering over.
March is buzzing like those bees,
Now crowded up in a old, oak tree.