Mother Robin Weaves Her Nest
In the brisk embrace of dawn, a robin toils—
A flutter of wings, a rustle of life reborn,
She dances on the breeze, her beak a weaver's tool,
Arranging sticks and strands, a tapestry takes form.
With each trip, a triumph—each twig a victory won,
Her chest, a blaze of orange, against the cool spring air,
Nature's architect, crafting with carefree zest,
She loops the sky, her nest a growing testament there.
The thicket murmurs secrets, as she listens and learns,
Dry grasses in tow, her silhouette dips and sways,
A ballet of purpose beneath the warming sun,
In this cradle of twigs, future melodies will play.
Determination in each movement, joy in every flight,
A promise woven into the walls of her snug retreat,
Spring heralds life, and she, its tireless scribe,
A home, at last, where tiny hearts will beat.
Copyright © Don Iannone | Year Posted 2024
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