March again.
The near ridge blocks the sun by three.
Cold cruises up the valley like a mile of ice.
High maple twigs, patina of the graying sky, 
budded and slender, furred with frost, 
suck in the sap, their only chance to make it through this night.
They hold their breath, engorged.
Morning sun will shine forever before the twigs can give it up.
Released at last, sap trickles down a thousand springs into the river of the trunk.
Still half-filled with ice, lidded buckets tick on every tree.