POEM - The Robins

The robins huddle in a dull gray mass
Onto the flat green palm of a football field,
Shrugging their shoulders like little old men
Wearing newsie caps and chomping on the tails of cigars,
Tight and immersed in a robin’s breath
That drops like a stone as it leaves feathered bodies.
Eye to eye and beak to beak they stand,
Wondering in the hard frost that stings hands
Like the biting needles of a Christmas Scotch pine
On Epiphany –
“I came north for this?”


M C Biegner