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.

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About the Author

John Dorroh has never caught a hummingbird or fallen into an active volcano. He has however, baked bread with Austrian monks and drunk a healthy portion of their beer. Five of his poems were nominated for Best of the Net. Others have appeared in over 125 journals, including Feral, El Portal, River Heron, and Kissing Dynamite.

John Dorroh
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