All spring I tried to sleep on the berm that split the bed.
I was ditched on the verge.

When I cracked the window
to admit cold air,
I heard the holly rustle
with a flock of robins
gorging on the berries.
Red berries in the red breast.

I went to clean the birdhouse
of its square nest.

Above, I saw the pileated’s crest.
He was hard at work
socking the rotten stump with his whole head.

in Poet Lore 107, 1/2