There is a robin who hunts my grounds
This late summer afternoon.
An auburn, muted breast has he,
And as rain falls through this nearest air, he haunts.
I've yet found no Bird of Verse whose song or soul
Expresses so fully this moment--or impresses upon me,
Significantly so, its specific gravity; therefore,
Have I taken up pen.
The rain rages now at slant,
And perched upon our wall of brick
He waits for earth to soften
For he brings the peace of death.