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.