Silent Morning

The baby robin is dead.

Its red breast and open beak

lie sullied in the dirt under the nest.

We could surmise a reach too far

over the rim

of the woven grass.

Or blame the wind—

the gust that took my hat and toppled

a robust jade like a plastic cup

could surely fling a fledgling from a shallow nest.

We shall not blame the mother who did nothing

for three weeks but fuss over the baby

and protect the yard from the cock and the crow.

Who sat on the nest and brought food

to the yawning beak

and filled the mornings with song

and industrious labor

for naught.