Feeding A Late Robin (Poetry)

Now the pigeons have at last vacated — flown
to find their roosts somewhere in the pines
and dusk sifts through like flecks of sky dropped slow
we wait for you — latecomer to the feast
your flutter on the sill — your tapping beak
one bright eye trained upon us all the while
                                you peck and choose.

It seems you wait — hold back — until the orange sun
has sunk below the rooftops — then you come
in that last glow — for supper a few crumbs —
some scattered seeds — a mealworm — just enough
to see you through another bitter night
your visit brief — a snack — then you are gone.

Where do you shelter from the season’s chill?
Imagination wishes you some chink
within a sturdy wall — safe from the frost
that ices in the darkness every twig
then morning sun must fight each cloud to reach
and thaw out feathered sleepers’ frozen feet.

Times must be tough — we help as best we can —
not charity but payment for the cheer you bring —
your bob outside the glass — your fluting song —
that flash of red announcing you have come
to take what’s offered quickly not outstay
your welcome at our ever-open window-ledge café.