March arrives with drama planned,
Not loud, but bold and poorly timed.
The hooman calls it “spring at hand,”
I call it birds who’ve lost their mind.
They open curtains wide each day,
As if unveiling sacred art.
I take my post without delay,
The window ledge, my watching heart.
The garden moves. It dares to change.
Things flutter, hop, and bloom outside.
The quiet winter feels quite strange,
Replaced by chaos, bold with pride.
The birds return with reckless cheer,
They chirp like rent is overdue.
They bounce about without a fear,
And sing like I am not in view.
I crouch. I stare. I plan attacks.
My tail betrays me every time.
The birds continue all their acts,
Performing crimes that should be mine.
The hooman laughs and calls me cute,
As if this is a casual show.
They miss the threat, the grave dispute,
Between my soul and birds below.
Outside, the blooms begin to rise,
Small splashes pink and yellow loud.
The hooman gasps with widened eyes,
As if surprised by flowers allowed.
They kneel and talk to dirt and leaves,
They say, “This year I will do well.”
The plants say nothing, just believe,
I do not trust that silent spell.
Bees appear with buzzing flair,
Unbothered by my focused stare.
They float like they have jobs somewhere,
While I am trapped in indoor care.
The hooman opens windows wide,
Inviting scents of earth and rain.
I sniff once more, then step aside,
That smell contains both hope and pain.
March makes hoomans feel inspired.
They stretch, they clean, they hum, they plan.
Then sit back down, already tired,
Because ambition comes in spam.
They promise walks and garden days,
They swear they’ll start next week for sure.
I blink slow twice in calm displays,
March dreams are many, follow through is poor.
Sun patches travel floor to chair,
I chase them with religious zeal.
The hooman steps with practiced care,
Respecting warmth as something real.
Each day the garden grows more bold,
More birds, more blooms, more noise, more nerve.
I judge it all, both young and old,
From my warm post where watchers serve.
At night the window cracks just so,
Cool air sneaks in with springtime sound.
The birds retreat, the garden slows,
And peace at last is gently found.
March is not rush. It is not race.
It is a teaser, soft and sly.
It shows the world, then hides its face,
And dares us all to watch it try.
I curl and close one watchful eye.
Tomorrow brings another show.
The garden grows. The birds will lie.
And I will watch them all. I know.
© Oh Erik 2026 – Sarah-Leigh Wills.