Robin

Her blaze of red against the pale grays and browns caught my eye
still against the earth at the edge of a busy street
We observed each other cautiously
she from behind a downed limb and defiant grasses
dusty leaves left untethered by a storm
and I her from the confines of my car and rolled down window
she moved not – still – untrusting of the beasts lined
in the river of molten black
It suddenly and most audaciously occurred to me to speak
low and thrilled my whistle came
unsure if accent correct or if I spoke
ill of wind and ways – whistle did I anyway
She moved, closer to edge, puffed up but ever clever
listening
Turning head, her eye encircled with white gleamed
and before the light turned green
the world of man and machine taking no notice
we conversed for what seemed a breath of nature
and I knew
I had spoken kindly.

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