The robin can sing, alright.
He outstares the stars
and fires his songs at them,
outnumbered by the silences of the night.
His breast has lost its colour
but not his heart its words –
words that have no meaning, save as of the Song –
words betrayed by the light into timely utterance.
He sings to remind a soul in the dark
that night is not a cave of fears
but like the robin’s throat: a Well of Song,
drawn from and drawn deep into the morning.