Robin
Here
A
Little
Robin sings.
His joyful piping
Brings happiness to human ears,
His fiery redbreast glowing like a foundry furnace.
But
We
Humans
Misconstrue
His soliloquy.
No harbinger of Spring is he,
Unique amongst our garden birds, he sings all year round.
He
Sings
Not for
Happiness
Nor joy of Nature –
He’s driven by a primal urge,
His song, a warning, a territorial battle cry.
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