Three robins
On a maple bough
Swung low beneath the
Swirling storm
A picture in my mind they etched
So comfortable they seemed
And warm
Though blizzard whipped
And branches lashed
They waited out the
Fits and blasts
And sat amidst the throes of it
And there they bobbed
And rode the morn
And seemed quite happy
Unperturbed
Not huddling
Hunched
Or under wing
But dusted white and
Flocked in snow
Like pearls
Adorning breast of red
No ruffled feather out of place
No single note of song forlorn
As southern climes
They must have scorned
And chose to winter here instead




Sara Mathews     January 2016