February sun gently caresses the back of my legs.
But it’s warmth isn’t enough to help my frozen hands hold the hot pink pruners.
I end up dropping them into the middle of the thorniest part of the raspberry thicket.
I stomp my chilled feet in time to the melodic trilling of the Cedar Waxwings beautifully chiming in the trees across the street.
Soft cooing of Quail breaks out from the bushes over the fence, our supervisors have shown up.
The sun lowering in the sky means time for them to advance upon the feeder in squirming droves. One brave bird perching on the fence as a lookout.
We gather up the prickly branches, carefully tossing them into the compost, but they refuse to let go, stubbornly reaching and grasping in desperation to avoid their doom.
It’s cold even in the sunlight now, February will fight for Winter.
But March will bring on spring.