Chinook

The wind blows fog off distant rivers, unveils the sun

blown in by breezes from a warmer place beyond the sea

carrying birds back home in flocks that fly formations

to our valleys from the coast.

Here in town we luxuriate deliciously in this surprising gentle gift

climate aberration in a region

where spring is normally three cool months of rain and silver showers

in a day suddenly gone unseasonal,

sensuous sweet warmth shining through the brown and bony arms

of trees still skeletal and mostly leafless,

under blue skies boldly bright as any day in june.

This year it’s late, coming in mid-march, to greening chartreuse hills

that harbor hidden yellow knots of daffodils,

and crocuses peeping shyly but predictably  from under rocks.

Normally it might be february were it to occur at all.

Never a sure thing, skips more years than we wish to recall

this irrational and temporary spell, celebrated

by  pretty college girls appearing bikini-clad and buff on balconies,

smelling strongly of coconut and vanilla

the syrupy song of saxophones blaring from open windows

over glorious galloping guitars

during daylight hours

children with their mothers or their fathers reveling noisily together

on squeaky schoolyard  swings,

elders sipping minty ice teas on shaded café patios,

daring each other to get some sun. Chinook’s a sweet and short-lived  thrill,

like puppy love or any other,

half the insane unspeakable joy of it

our unspoken suspicion knowing this can’t last,

is certainly unsustainable and wrong, must be tasted,

that buds that dare to bloom now may lose their later perfect promised fruit,

but knowing now that this is just as good as living on this planet ever gets,

we savor this like lemon drops that melt to nothing in the mouth

there is no joy as crazy nor spell as sweet

than the magic of this freak false spring,

Chinook.