Beneath the myriad leafless giants and towering loblolly pines, a lonely wanderer wends his way through the lowland forest.
Last week's rain-swollen torrent well on its way to the sea by now, the swamp stands silent save for the steady chorus of Pseudacris crucifer, whose amphibious anthem heralds the advent of spring.
Red-tipped twigs of maple whisper softly of life renewed, and just there, along winter's barren vine, perch tender tufts of freshest green; they whisper, too, of spring.
Behind the scenes, another traveler plies the creekside path.
Silent, for now. Unseen. Wild, untamed spirit.
Later, he will speak.
And the woods will fairly echo with the sound of spring.
Alas, so little of the seasons sees the wanderer;
least of all Spring.