Fickle

March is fickle and moody. One day harsh and unforgiving and the next sweetness and light.

Most of the days dancing between one and the other, keeping us on our toes, watchful for signs of relenting.

the ice hangs like sharp fangs off the rocky shore of the lake

the sun, when it shows itself, dazzles on the lake 

the trees are casualties of a harsh winter

fallen branches are everywhere, reminders of the ice storm 

But today I heard the red winged blackbird

Spring will come, despite the mood swings of March