In March the harbinger wings slowly south,
and casts its eerie cry upon the land:
“The sun creeps north — of that there is no doubt;
you must head home and show your winter tan.”
In answer, snowbirds lift their sun-drenched heads
and batten down their southern digs for now;
for they have all grown jaded lying in bed,
and wonder if the north is mired in snow.
So back they drive, where gasoline ain’t cheap,
where politicians scream in Question Period,
the curling rink, not home, is where one sweeps
and hockey is the game that makes us serious.
So let us make them welcome, everyone:
and someone fire up the northern sun.