And say you were to look at
The delicate robin now
In the brisk of winter, casting endless song
waiting for the rain to turn to cotton.
A child would see more than its red breast,
more than the petite black coals for eyes.
Within its beating feet and wisp of a tail
It will create a story, ranging between its family, its pass times and its meals

But what about now? The countless grey in your hair,
You may merely see it as an animal, you may barely see it at all or know of its existence.
Now your voice only speaks in monotonous hisses; of finances, stability and the latter.
God forbid, your own son speaks of such a bird, for you'll merely roll your eyes, clasp his wrist and say:
"There is none, let's move."

- N.C.