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Early Spring, Michigan

I rise at 6, and read. Daylight won’t begin for an hour.
At 7, gray light shuffling through the blinds hints it may be a gray day. Too early to be sure.
Feed the cats, the dogs, and, with the dogs, the birds. 
Only then, close to 8, does the sky flash daylight’s first true color. 
If the sky stays gray, the light is sad and needs lamplight to warm it. 
If there’s some blue, the light is strong and bright.
Whatever the light, the temperature, or the dryness of the day, it will shift by afternoon.
The wind will rise or cease. Snow may melt into rain, or rain will ice up and collect a dusting of snow.
Unless the temperature rises above 40.
At the end of daylight, a glisk may break through a wall of clouds.
Or the clouds scatter, keeping a socially responsible distance. The setting sun approves and reveals itself. The sky and clouds glow with vivid yellows, oranges, pinks, and then purples — presaging the flowers that really, truly will bloom.

The April 2 challenge is to write a poem based on a word featured in a tweet from Haggard Hawks, an account devoted to obscure and interesting English words.

Selected word: Glisk: 1. a gleam of sunlight through cloud; a glow of heat from a fire. Figuratively, a glimpse of the good (Shetlandic) 2. a brief or incomplete view. to catch a glimpse of the sea 3. a vague indication. he had a glimpse of what the lecturer meant · 4. archaic. a glimmer of light. (Definition courtesy of Collins English Dictionary and Rob Macfarlane, on Twitter.)


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