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.

Memory

Do you believe that robins return to the same location year after year? Last year we had a robin’s nest in an old arborvitae beside the front of the house. We dug the tree out mid-summer because it was scraggly and unsightly. We have yet to replace it with something new, so the front of the house is bare. This morning a robin is building a nest on top of a post tucked in beside a beam under the overhang on the porch roof. The activity is in direct view of my writer’s window, so I shall be able to keep track of her progress. Or is it a he? I know the male helps sit on the eggs. Does he help build the nest as well? I hope this spot offers protection and I’m sorry we took down her tree. My grandma used to shoo the sparrows off her front porch and knock down the pesky bird’s nests. But I think she would like my robin.

I wish I could spend all day exploring serious themes in handsome prose while watching the robins. But I'm in the throes of query letter angst...to lead with a hook or to avoid the hook. Or to hang oneself by the neck from a post with a rope until dead.

Just kidding.