Robin Song

bare winter branches hold him high
scarlet breasted and feathers ruffle in the winter wind
slender legs hold fast to the leafless twig
and eyes dart about surveying his world
calling to the leaden skies, tiny throat open
pitching out a song most pure
surveying a scene, he is master of
nature listening to the winter king
ground of iron-droplets of ice
the joy of song notes so sweet
matching any angel, singing without a care
alone but not lonely-under infinite skies he sang…

there is no other song, just his.

© Ingrid Riches