Linda Himot

Perhaps I blinked or turned my head,
the robins that last year came – a flock,
overflowed the fountain and the lawn,
sprayed rainbows of water as they bathed,
have not appeared to chatter in my garden.

Only a few, high in the cherry laurel,
eat the fruit. They couldn’t get enough before,
stripped it clean then headed north.
I’ve looked for weeks, kept up my hope,
beyond the time they should have passed.

Like me, common, unathletic birds – chunky
and a bit ungainly, not streamlined
like the Arctic Tern. And yet,
through sheer determination, fly,
familiar breeding grounds their destination.

Harbingers of spring, first to nest and hatch, they are
my poems’ inspiration, even though I’m late to start.


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