There are several rotund robins flitting about the barren trees
in the smallish, wooded area outside my window,
while frigid temperature and snow continue to fall,
appears there’s at least a foot of white frosting on the ground.
Noting just the male robins all seem to have beer bellies
didn’t even know robins drank beer, but it sure looks like they do.
Anyhow, there appears to be interlopers in the low hanging branches black puffy types with white stripes on their wings, could they be the Po?
Just Google checked, evidently both the male and female robins
have red chests, with the male breast plate brighter than the female,
then there’s the off-beat personalities among the branch dwellers
some never move, while seemingly high-strung types don’t stop moving.
Who knew, certainly not me, that during a January blizzard in Maine the red-breasted dozen would bring up my spirits without even trying, just being their amazing selves, wings flapping quickly picking the few hardened red berries from the bare branches.
Suddenly, off they go into the wild grey yonder, and in that moment, I’m more alone than before they arrived, yeh, transitions challenge my heart at this stage of the game, as my final transition, my swan song, settles quietly down upon the fragile old branch inside my heart.
~ pe kaplan, 2026