herself on the fence,
not moving left or right. Searches
morn and night for the answer. Only
leaves to make dinner. She has no

nest. She has no tree. But she
has longing. For what she does not
know, to fly or build her home? Another
day passes. Another cycle of the sun

and moon. Another snowy, cold
December. Another hot, sunny
June. Another round of eggs hatching
to fly south. Another nest a robin's

patching and feeding hungry
mouths. She sees it all on
the splintered fence. If she could
condence like dew on a cool

October morning. If a blade
of grass was calling to her like
a worm. It's only when the neighbor's
grey cat's hungry that she squirms.