A Song for This Morning
I saw the baby Robins being fed
in their nest this morning.
Little head/beak shapes pointed skyward
and mother Robin depositing food there.
Upstretched yearning was met
with just what it needs. Just what it asks for.
And nothing expected in exchange.
No bargaining or requirements in payment.
Nothing expected in return except for growth
and development and a carrying-on of life
in the skies, on branches; just an eventual soaring
of wings on air. Feathers, nests, eggs, song.
Marjorie Moorhead writes from a northern New England river valley, surrounded by mountains, and four season change. Happy to have found a voice and community in poetry, her work can be seen in many anthologies, literary sites, and two chapbooks. During the current pandemic, she relies on zoom to gather with poets and writers. She is watching a pair of Bluejays brood their young.