"And what will you do about this endless winter?"
the robin asks me, his head tilted
and his onyx-cabochon eyes glitter in my direction.
This is a dream.
I will wake up, full of shivers of fear, and cold because I kicked off my blankets.
I will lie perfectly still until my body quiets, then try to fall asleep.
But the robin hops closer; his eyes demand an answer.
"This is New England," I say weakly, "Winter isn't over til May.
You are just impatient for spring."
He is a mere animal, short-lived, unable to see the long view of life.
"My eggs will freeze," the robin whines, and I see his nest
with three adorable little blue eggs, just like in picture-books.
I touch the middle one, and it breaks open and inside I see
a horrible little frozen-stiff body curled up impossibly small.
It is not a bird.