My mind was cluttered

with catastrophe.

Churning and turning,

Composing and decomposing.

Phrases, paragraphs, essays,


Words, words, words.

Then suddenly,

A robin sang her way into

The cerebral clamor.

Our eyes met.

The chatter stopped.

She balanced on a spruce bud,

Sky all around her

Shouting its blueness.

Sun on her red breast?

But wait.

All those poets and ornithologists

Naming her a red-breasted robin

Were wrong.

The feathers are clearly

Burnt umber, even orange,

But certainly not red.

Before more words could

Consume me,

She sang be back

Once more.