4/23/13 in Just-spring, when the world is puddle wonderful

and the robins fill the trees on a snowy morning

belly-plumped,

dozens, by dozens.

I run from window to window, 

counting madly

trying to subtract the fliers 

from those perched for my census

and there are five dozen.

Five dozen, in seven trees, in sight of me.

I walked outside, entranced, 

to see if the numbers held up down the street.

And there were empty trees.

All of the birds have congregated.

And I am at Ground Zero.