The party started late this year.

It was too cold to enjoy much.

The ice for the drinks was already here.


Purple Martins came early,

but missed the hors d’oeuvres and couldn’t settle on a place to sit.

Instead they screeched and chortled about the lack of food.


Ash and Basswood foliage put in an appearance –

coming late, pushing through the greening crowd –

hoping for the best drinks,

a wind driven chardonnay or perhaps a slow, misting merlot?

They will leave early as they always do.


The Mallards arrived –

and began bickering over the corn crostinis with jalapenos on the lawn.

One coy hen sashayed seductively around the emerald carpet

in between bites of stale corn madeleines, pursued by three suitors.


The spider on the edge of the crowd

slid down his silver thread from the eaves,

and wondered at the revelry.

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