When the crocus bloom and the snow is only left in piles of weeping slush, the sing of spring begins. It is a song without words and the music is hidden. Yet, it is everywhere, carried by the merry winds and full of the rich, raw smells of wet mud and fresh grass.
The song dances in between the trees and whispers to green buds that are beginning in the branches. The sing dances in the meadows, making the young grass bo and bend. The birds, still coming back from the south, know the sing of spring and so do the waking creatures in their burrows and beds.
Spring is here. The winter has gone and life has been renewed,
And in the little streams that wind their way to the rivers and then to the sea, black sludge flows.
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