spring

mist from a melodramatic sky
prickles my skin.
the song birds don't sing,
but bitch about nest building
for the eleventh season
and threaten flight into windows.

dogs howl at noises they
only hear in their heads,
and the squirrels leave
for their hatred
of dog shit smell.

by the end of earth's three month rotation
we will sigh relief.
the god damned babies
have finally shut up.
their cuteness morphed
into adolescent awkwardness.

we'll be alone again.
in silence...
until we break it
with sound of desperate
fucking.

shit.
more babies.

the long summer days grow longer.