England.

Early January.

Out morning winter walking in the urban

backwoods, I see what I should not:

green buds breaking from the sleepy bark.

Not just the eager whitethorn but blackthorn, too,

and haw and wild rose and ash and more. All are

stirring now, too soon, wakened by the early warmth

of the world. They are not rested. They will bud and

leaf and flower and die before they should, out of

the time with the rhythm of the seasons. Bluebells, too,

are showing through, too soon, too soon.

This world is warming, these signs a warning

to us all.