Winter relaxes his grip, and the snow we had all but vanishes.
After it melts, it leaves the first flotsam of the winter: a wasp’s
nest, a summer home painstakingly constructed one cell, one chewed
fiber at a time, now abandoned, knocked off its perch, blown about on
the ground. I give it a new perch on my desk, and remember the wasps that made it home.
Our cats stand on the pond ice and lap up water as it melts.