popplers

Ahh, spring.

For the past few days, it has been lovely and warm. Almost warm enough to open the windows, but not quite. Warm enough to not wear a coat and hat, and to defiantly wear a short-sleeved shirt, just so you can insist, No, I'm not cold. The crocuses are starting to emerge (but not bloom). Yesterday, our backyard was bird central: titmice, chickadees, nuthatch, cardinal, junco. And so, popplers brings you poetry, surprisingly not written by Ogden Nash. The official title is "Spring in the Bronx".

Spring is sprung,
Duh grass is riz
I wonder where dem boidies is.

Duh little boids is on duh wing--
But dat's absoid:
Duh little wing is on duh boid.