Where the Robins fly

One morning looking out my window,
A Robin perched looking in at me.
A rumpled feathered creature
In the boughs of a Tulip tree.

Its beak was old and weathered,
Chipped pecking at hardened seeds.
Its scaly legs and talons,
Dried and withered reeds.

I smiled remembering spring,
When it had come the year before.
To fly against my window pane,
Or sit chirping above my door.

To me it was an omen,
A gift from my distant past,
I wondered where it had been til now
And if this visit would be the last.

The Robin held still its feathered head,
Not a breath of life could I discern,
It continued to examine me with eyes,
As if from me an answer it would learn.

I think it knew its time was near,
That it would rest on the ground below.
To become part of the fertile earth,
Where wild flowers each spring would grow.

In an instant it flew out of sight,
A dart of color across the sky
Where the soul of man will ascend,
Carried away where the Robins fly.

©2010, Donald Harbour