The backyard has been host to a new flock of young robins this year. They figure out bugs and worms and short flights.
The speckles
Begin to disappear.
The older robins say,
In whatever way,
Robins say:
The time comes
When we will fly
South.
Wait for it.
Wait for it.
Wait for it.
The young birds,
Newly fledged,
Say
South?
What is
South?
What
Do we wait for?
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