There were robins by the hundreds behind
the house when I let the dog out to pee, the
sun a translucent yellow disc, suspended

like a glass-thin lollipop in the east. They
were talking to each other, making plans,
socializing like students on break. Perhaps

it was a convention, and I should feel honored,
them selecting this parcel of land to meet and
greet the way robins do. I felt a bit guilty

having been asleep, coiled into the fetal
position, while conventioneers in the back
yard reeled from a breakfast of worms

and beetles, electing new officials, preparing
the agenda for the next gathering, and catching
up with news from all the participants. I wiggled

back into my nest to separate the noise from
solitude with as little as a back door and a wall.