January rain, fine spray from a celestial hose, blows across the yard,
beads on the bare branches of the neighbor’s walnut tree.
The first robins of winter descend like drunken paratroopers;
I imagine they’ve been feasting on fermented pyracantha berries
the way they drop, woozy and chortling, to the ground,
gleefully snagging drowning worms from the saturated soil.
Beneath the dripping camellia bush my cats tremble with desire
outnumbered, they know it is futile to attack.
Caught between mind and year, yearnings like so many baited hooks
drifting into deep water, I surface, summoned back
to this moment by the raucous delight of fifty robins,
their tangerine breasts small hearths in the grey morning.
All rights reserved. Posted by kind permission of Amber Coverdale Sumrall.
Because they crowd the corner of every city street, because they are the color of…
I sent him from home hardly more than a child. Years later, he came back…
So many colors abandon the earth, and go skyward to the trees like origami birds,…
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