During a summer thunder storm

frantic robins more brown than red

flew into and out of wildly waving pine branches

flew into and out of wet white clover and grass

and as I watched finally I saw what they saw—

their not quite grown fledglings

one huddled as close to the pine’s trunk

as possible, another in the pounded grass,

others, I supposed, higher in the tree

and some floundering in the rain

their little wet bodies puffed out

bracing with what life gives. 

 

 

Melva Sue Priddy