More About the Light

Confused, perhaps, by the ambiguous diffuse mishaps,
effects, demands of embryonic global warming,
red-breasted robins (one suspects) do not fly quite as

regularly in the winter anymore to warmer lands: and now –
well, now – a bright-red-breasted robin lights upon
a bough upon a tree outside the kitchen window:

blessed by middle-winter-white sunlight in all its middle-
afternoon oblivion and blight, the round ex-pat expectant
robin looks inordinately fat: full-up on something,

anyway: or maybe fluffed in some sharp birdy-huffy way
about the meteorologic shift in things as they affect
small feathered animals with wings. But more about

the light: each glance into the air hints at another sort
of dance inside its glisten and its glare – completely
unaware of seasonal respectability. Perhaps the robin’s

stayed for this: to be inside this whisked variety of photon
wisp and whip: to slip past the expected atoms and reject
conventional dimensions: this light is surely full of tricks,

and Birdy wants to be right in its mix – to ride its gravity-
defying rise and fall: appear and disappear into the quantum
small. (Perhaps one never saw the robin after all.)



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