outdoors poetry

Robins in the yard

[No run today]

Vests red rusty and brown jackets; their black twiggy
feet and pointy beaks and spying black eyes.

Hop, hop looking for worms maybe, or grubs, something,
I can’t figure from this distance at least.

There must really be a veritable feast of whatever
it is. Nothing I’d be eating myself.

Who, I wonder rings the dinner bell to gather
all these robins in the backyard after rain?

I am thinking it was lucky that I didn’t
buy grub killer for the spreader at Lowes.

I would rather have the robins do the grubbing,
keep the money for next winter birdseed.