Though I know I never will again,
I will watch the squirrels on the crusty snow
of April, doing what they always do
in April.
Though I know
I never will, again, hear the creak-cry of the spring eagle,
come too soon to this idiot, frozen river
in April,
I know I will never forget these things,
though they will forget me, again and again
in April,
when there are squirrels and eagles and spring.