The Red Robbin

There is a stump on my front yard
Where a red chested robbin
Pounces and pauses
To thump out a trill of chirps
Before skipping away from it

Sometimes it takes wing to escape
Other times it hops off the stump
And runs in one direction
Hopping along its keen limbs
In a low hasted speed

I have seen this bird appear there
Dozens of times
It could be the same bird each time
Maybe he lives in my neighborhood
And he wants to visit me and only me
Like the sight of me is what gives him volume
My face makes him real

This bird is outside of me
And I am inside of it
I am also the stump
And the wind that gives him flight
The mobile equator between us
Ribs a gestalt forecasting night

I can’t think of anything to write lately
I have read too much and there is nothing to express
Sometimes you read so much
That your accuracy gets in the way of your utterance
Your taste obstructs your inspiration
I am alone today
I will be alone tonight

Sometimes it doesn’t feel real
This aloneness
Yet it’s as real as a blank piece of paper
It’s as real as a possibility of the day
its realness billows like a silent membrane
Nothing to get worked up over
I am trying to translate an inner experience
And having trouble putting it down