Every morning
the robin is back.
Same tree.
Same impossible enthusiasm.

I think
she’s my publicist.

Hark, there she is!

The human is still alive!

Still draping herself in large ribbons!

The message remains consistent.

A worm!

A cloud!

A rat!

Relentless, unfettered praise.

Hark!

We are alive!

She doesn’t confuse
attention with devotion.
She sings.
The wind moves through.
A siren creeps in and out.
A train rattles past.
Someone leaves.
Someone stays.
A plane careens overhead.
Her song continues.

Flags.

Battles.

Promises.

The American Robin
sings before and after
being named American,

before and after
being named Robin.

This morning
she arrived before sunrise.
By the time I opened the window
she was already cheering.

For this.

This body.

This day.

This ridiculous life.

I waved.

She paused
and kept singing.