Robin

Robin

Surrounding myself with beauty, cushions me from some of life’s rougher moments.  When I was younger, I memorized poetry–a nickle a line (thank you, Mom).  Now, the words slip out of my mind like pearls from a box–rich and glowing–when life seems lifeless.

One of my favorites is Emily Dickinson’s piece below the fold.  The poem doesn’t explicitly name the bird and I reluctantly allow it could be a chickadee or some other little brown bird but she describes a robin’s actions so accurately (the one I photographed a few mornings ago could have been auditioning to play the leading role in her poem) that I see a robin.

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A Bird came down the Walk –
He did not know I saw –
He bit an Angleworm in halves
And ate the fellow, raw,

And then he drank a Dew
From a convenient Grass –
And then hopped sidewise to the Wall
To let a Beetle pass –

He glanced with rapid eyes
That hurried all abroad –
They looked like frightened Beads, I thought –
He stirred his Velvet Head

Like one in danger, Cautious,
I offered him a Crumb
And he unrolled his feathers
And rowed him softer home –

Than Oars divide the Ocean,
Too silver for a seam –
Or Butterflies, off Banks of Noon
Leap, plashless as they swim.

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