The robin sings at first light,
announcing new life in the old pine.
Below, sheltered by scruffs of willow
a fox kit blinks at sunrise from his den.
The barn cat's manger nursery has sweet hay.
Fields glow nascent green, and orchards
burst white promises of harvest.
Mortals, blind with logic, claim
January starts the year, while nature
shakes her lovely head and smiles,
knowing it begins in April.
                    
This poem first appeared in VerseWrights.
Used here with the author's permission.