Requiem for a Robin

One robin, in June,

When life bursts forth to fill the air with summertime perfume,

One bird with back of angry summer thunderclouds,

With breast of pumpkin orange,

Summer joy-song still caught in slender, speckled throat--

Dead.

Laying still among vibrant, brilliant greens,

Nestled in between the pulsating passions

And coy beckonings that explode in an orgy of colors

From delicate petaled faces with the chasteness of snow,

Fixed upon the rich, brown home

Of pale earthworms and many legged things that eschew the light,

One robin,

In June,

Dead.

Gentle breath departed,

Heart that once quivered so delicately now stilled in feathered breast,

Fragile white lids hiding sightless eyes, black and dulled,

The glitter of life gone,

Strong, slender wings folded at the sides,

To feel the ecstasy of flight

Never again.

Not a mark upon the body,

Not a ruffled feather,

Not a drop of blood,

To suggest why

One robin, in June,

Lies dead,

Alone, save for a few ants

That have gathered for the sake

Of their insectile, scavenging selves.

But the sun shines down upon everything equally,

And so,

Amid the loudness of summer blooms,

The soft melodies of pastel butterfly colors,

The pungent, metallic buzz of sun-song,

And the sugary sweetness of summer love's serenade,

There will be no pause,

No requiem, however small,

For one robin,

Dead,

In June,

An epitome

Of feathered innocence.