Little Robin

A little robin comes to my garden.
He perches on the fence post and preens his feathers.
Eyes, like black beads,
Shine in the morning frost.
His rusty red chest puffs out in the winter,
Staking his claim on this patch of land.
I watch him through my kitchen window while I do my washing up.
Hopping between the branches,
Digging through the soil with his beak.
He flits and flicks, here and there.
Tick, quick, flick, flit.
By night, he sings his melody
Beneath mellow lamp light.
A unique song; unmistakable.


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