Spring at a high latitude

Dim paling of night
fingers of light
pulling on one
clearing horizon.
The air is cool;
but my paired feet
slap wet pavement
bare counterpoint
to spattered rain
of a rare warm spring
at a high latitude
and I puddlepaddle
east out of shadow
east into widening
arcs of sunsrising
knowing here
deep meaning
in the sound
of each drop
of each step
into new day.