by Karen HonnoldIt is spring again. Another one without you. Who can I tell about the black crow his beak full of my white dog’s fur? Who will listen or care, that the woods behind the house has changed due to the erosion of spring rains. A sparrow is fighting with some wrens for the bluebird house. Who can I tell? The squirrels are digging up flowers I’ve planted making more work for me. It was you who listened to the minutia of my life, those little things that make up my days. I saw two turtles in the woods but, who can I tell?