The Robin’s Reflection

The robin flies into the window
because glass does not shine like water;
and there is another bird there,
flat and strange and shimmering.
This is the robin’s land of
damp creeksides and
there’s the nest among the maple towers,
so he sings a song, beautiful and weaved of trills,
and the sun moves along with his notes,
until at long last the other bird has gone.