Spring’s feathered herald
pecks furtively at the frozen’d ground
urging worms far nestled below
who refuse to venture out
and greet the bitter rain.
His red-dulled breast
heavy-drenched
with water disguised as ice.
II
She found last night
among the howling winds
that her chickling
had become an egg once more
curled into a downy, frail ball
yet no more warm
now more silent than ever.
III
Two quivering robins
huddle over their branch-bare nest
their warbles lost in the pelting hail
not a peep escapes from their hatchlings.
2012
intotheindigo 