A robin gathered sticks, not one;
she gathered two.
And others then if they were in
her bird’s-eye view.
As coarse or fine enough, of both,
before she flew.
Inside a tree, a branch in there
would host her nest.
Oh, that we knew what robin cue
in her red breast.
Made her decide, by what she saw,
which bough was best.
A stick upon a stick, and string
and straw were laid.
This nest must meet her body test
and did, when made.
Who cares if minutes to make sure
were overstayed.
Written and shared by
Bernice Trent Thompson
Seneca Rocks
