Robin Redbreast’s Pocket

Blithe breaks at the illumination of muted yellow leaves, so alive, nearly laughing like children; still life clinging. Autumnal blouse of painted bark and pretty sleeves. Silence of bluebirds and red robins - inward singing. The rake’s barely broken earth, a few clingers at task. Season’s copacetic with only a tinge or tingle of coolness. Time’s fallen back as I read and write in open-door-bask. I will join worshippers at church to net November’s fullness. A shiver, a shake, an ooh, an ahh, A phoebe does go on and on about the break of day; brightness in her clutch. The slightest breeze bursts forth to create the ebb and flow. It’s like an artist brushing hither then thither; a mirthful touch. More beaks join the chorus, as will I, when I hear the music. Oh how delightful, a dizzy dance of bells in the wind’s socket. I swoon and sashay, on the pavement, in communion’s cubic. How much more seasonal joy leaps from robin redbreast’s pocket?