Squirrel-scurry at a mound of cones, then chattering away not seen in the boughs.
They throw a language down and like what they hear or don't -- that sense in what just is.
Roof gutters brim with twigs, all sort of debris, more with each fanning of Spring
Rain, the toss of clouds resaturating what's below.
Spring throws us in and we find us what to do, or not -- that's, too, the 'real' of it.