Poem #197
Washing Down
The flowers hang on each other
in early morning, it is cold and damp.
Some of them jump down into a puddle
on the ground. The robins still have their work to do,
so they fly back-and-forth between the low branches
and the roots to pick up some small things.
Others stay in under folded wing.
For them the day is already done.
They wait hungry for another morning.
The clouds are less striking while they whistle dutifully,
but they are relieved to come back down to earth.
For now, the ditches and dens smell like fox
and the turkey roost until the sun breaks through.