...they do the dance. I can't hear the music from inside the house, but I can tell by their movement that it's not a slow waltz that's playing.
The maples articulate their bare and bony arms against the sky: the scudding clouds like scarves seem to catch and pull at woody elbows and twisted, arthritic fingers.
The firs persuade their skirts to sway wildly back and forth, rising, falling, then carrying them in whirling circles: blousy ladies whooping it up with abandon.
The ornamental cherry parsimoniously holds fast to her freshly minted pink jewels, unwilling to relinquish them to the spring tumult.
Alone, the staid oaks refuse to participate in the dance. With only a slight nod now and then in a stiff begrudging manner, they signal their disdain for such undignified behavior.
Welcome spring storms!