This is a poem I wrote about Spring birds. Every year, I always remember when I first see an American Robin. Since I recently moved to the mountains of Southern California, I did not think that I would see Robins again this spring. But I was wrong! What a sight, my old friends. In fact, I just saw one running along a ski slope. I hope you enjoy my poem!
First robin visited today,
wet and ruffled on the ground,
flicking up last summer’s leaves
from the half done thaw.
A leaf, browned and smoked grey
is pecked up into the air
landing on a patch of damp moss
that sits by the old hardwood.
Flycatchers are here too
living in the corner
of a split rusted gutter
under the covered patio.
Right on time, their song and tail
a seasoned metronome.
How they both know:
that loss is gained at birth
and to leave necessitates return.