The robin sits on the branch,
perfectly still. It’s puffed up,
conserving its energy
on the chilled November afternoon,
contemplating the stars
that it can’t yet see.
Then it takes off for another tree,
to continue its watch
from a different vantage,
perhaps triangulating its experience
as nearby squirrels chirp and scratch
at each other by the trunk.
Nothing is keeping itself at bay,
a cold breeze tells us all
that winter approaches.
We must stomp on the negatives
before they build up through doubt,
a smile necessary to complete the circuit.
WHARVED 