Cobblestone Avenue

 

I walk down a cobblestone avenue where there are no street signs

Instead there are bursting willow buds and green grass sprouts,

piercing a layer of beat-down brown that, for months,

sat beneath a heap of sparkling snow

There are no curbs, only piles of drowned driftwood

that dislodged some time and distance ago

Awakening along the avenue are singing song sparrows,

tedious trumpeter swans and boastful black bears

The cobblestone wasn’t precisely placed as perfect pavers either

It was strewn about by a rushing river

that started miles away at a gouging glacier,

geologically paving this cobblestone conglomeration