the robin stands in stillness
on a patch of winter-faded lawn
beside the straining daffodils
they are about to burst
yellow trumpets
ready to blare on cue
but the robin does not move
none of the usual hopping
and listening
the robin stands in stillness
no turning of the head
to betray the spark of life
rusty breast feathers
rustle in the cool spring wind—
taxidermy or contemplation
perhaps the worms
she hunts have themselves
stopped moving
only the restless wind persists
the wind will outlast it all
even the waiting
Comments
Clayton Medeiros
April 10, 2013
Permalink
Well done!
I like the sensibility of it, a world of spring time in a death spiral.