NR Digital


by Robert Loomis


If this old fallen world can look so great,
If even fallen birds can have such state
They land their narrow fingers on a tree,
And make a stem a stage to sing a glee
Of unrestricted wild tempestuous notes,
Crying command and all command connotes
To this unvarnished helter-skelter earth,
If robins gather trash to spin a berth
For holding open wide the maws of chicks
That squawk for breakfast, just a sodden mix
Of worms and insect tenderloin, and then
(Barely with time to feather up by when
They get their cue, their mother’s push and shove),
They land upright and strut with wondering love
Upon the moisture-laden April ground,
Dispensing prodigal melodious sound –
They give — but never poor, not once crestfallen –
Thus so our world — imagine the unfallen.

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