On branches bursting
from winter’s hibernation,
you are perched, watching
a cool evening unfolding.
You hop from limb to limb
within a tree’s stripped framework
then swoop downward to ground level
continuing mechanical-toy skips
across grass toward my front porch.
Stopping where grass meets cement,
you venture further with a timid bounce;
you stop at the first brick step – studying me.
Startled you stand staring at me
in full attention like I am your commander.
You see, Little Robin,
I’m not your commander at all.
I’m a lot like you.
Looking at this beautiful
I’m in awe, too.