Spring is a wholly owned subsidiary, surprising how many people don’t know this about spring. That it is owned outright, indeed and in patent, by a well-heeled holding company. A family, in fact, owns spring. A wealthy family, very wealthy, their name is Fringillidae, they live next door. Not very often does one get to live in the same neighborhood of such exceeding wealth, the family who owns spring. By my observation a busy family, I’m inclined to say antic, high strung, high pitched, as might be guessed their food too is rich. A big family, did I mention they were noisy, if nimble for all that. My friend Felix, the spy, would dine with them and at their expense, but seldom finds them at home. Despite Felix has connections with the CIA, his intrigue betrayed, his cover blown, the Fringillidae are on to him.

Did I mention that spring is owned by Fringillidae? They are that old and that rich, before Tut I believe, King Solomon was a partner. Bullion, the heavy stuff, is what they like, the carats and grams fairly pour from them and unlike some others of wealth they are generous with it.

My town chairman has complained of an old pasture over-run with thistle, if the term thistle does no justice to this northern cactus. As a companion plant it has an unfriendly demeanor, with a tendency to be boastful, it tends to leer at passersby, this how it caught the chairman’s eye. Have it out he said or he will; town chairmen are so like bull thistle themselves. Seems he does not know the family Fringillidae, finches, Rose and Red, the Poll and Goldie whose portfolio includes thistle. Brave investors they are even when the market is selling short but that is the finches for you, my eldest daughter married into the Fringillidae some time ago and is doing well.

Among them I feel like you know, the kid in the manger, for when they arrive in a rush as is their nature, they don’t bring myrrh or incense but come heaped with gold. The fine kind, 20 carat I should think, not the kind to stint.

I cherish their ilk, enthusiastic, a mirthful lot and that reputation for industriousness. Frequent fliers, they keep no hours, occasionally I overhear a family argument but no fist fights just loud. They strike me as Italian by extraction, if only to have hand gestures.

Spring comes early to my house up against the moor. The daylight is some bit advanced for it leaks in and dilutes the dark – is only them, my neighbors shedding gold leaf and flake. I rise in the afterglow of them, bask in their shine, my fields are warmed by their passerine. As to my wealth I must report my 401K is shot, my retirement alas is not to be, but I do have gold in hand. Did not a sage say it is fleeting anyway, in fact I’ve seen it, fly. They are fleeting as is only right for this bullion bunch, for my window glows though it snows and I have spring before my neighbor does. Goldfinch at the feeder.