The tiny tree frogs of March sing in pulses. In magical, unforced waveforms of their own.
One starts, they all join, they crescendo once or several times, they taper off, repeat.
Contraction~expansion~contraction is life, expressing - no push involved.
There are ups, downs, outs, ins, backwards, forwards, repeat.
Hints of renewal can arise, and they can also be sought.
A rain, a freshet. A frost, a frog song. A bud reddening, a green grass tip surfacing.
A cloud, free to move on its sky-way.
To the spring that bubbles from earth we go.
Open to quickening. To freshening. To swelling, to burgeoning.
To the font of personal magic: to practice.