By a Roadside
Waking from drear dreams, a dozen robins
In a bare tree.
To count them all, without wanton addition,
Address their silhouettes.
Their shivers and upruffled shoulders
Speak of spring.
An engine throbs past, robbing them
Of something spoken.
A scrub jay peers through lead leaves
Cocking his mutter.
Half a dozen now, no wetter, no colder,
Waiting for an ending.
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