10. A robin in the tree outside my window
bobs up and down on flexible branches
where buds have just
popped red.
I think it’s building
a nest, trying to find
the best notch for it —
it just zipped away and
back again with a
beak full of
yellow fluff.
I woke grumpy and
gray despite clear sun
streaming through
all our dirty windows.
My cloudy brain refuses
to lighten
or take a message from
the industrious bird
who bustles and twits,
constructing a future
out of flotsam,
wings shining, bones
filled with crisp
spring air.
