This may need a little something, but if so I need help finding it.
A Dead Robin on My Morning Walk
I walk the two-mile path
to the turn-around and start
back. Under the trees
robins galore. Some were
looking for worms
I suppose and some looking
at me as I sweat on this
hotter than normal August
morning. The desert conditions
make leaves crinkle under foot
and there, in the path,
a lifeless robin. Others,
still singing as I stop
to lift the orange ball.
The obvious is illusive.
The reflection in the eyes
is haunting, a pool of me.
With gentle force I pry open
the mouth and look inside
to where it made the song
and had a solemn thought
about the innocence of life
and why and how
and lost my voice, too.
A Dead Robin on My Morning Walk
I walk the two-mile path
to the turn-around and start
back. Under the trees
robins galore. Some were
looking for worms
I suppose and some looking
at me as I sweat on this
hotter than normal August
morning. The desert conditions
make leaves crinkle under foot
and there, in the path,
a lifeless robin. Others,
still singing as I stop
to lift the orange ball.
The obvious is illusive.
The reflection in the eyes
is haunting, a pool of me.
With gentle force I pry open
the mouth and look inside
to where it made the song
and had a solemn thought
about the innocence of life
and why and how
and lost my voice, too.