Why did the robin take a vigorous bath yesterday, on a thirty-five-degree winter afternoon? Did he do it to spite the incoming snow? And where is he now? Near the ice-rimmed pool, watching the white-bright world from under the rhododendron, warm to his red in its bed of dry leaves? At two this morning, I was awakened by snow-light. Out walking before seven, I saw a boy in front of his house on his knees in the snow, fully absorbed, pulling all he could reach towards him with gloved hands. He didn’t learn that in school. And yet, somehow, he knows, but not what he knows. He feels. Like a robin, perhaps?
Late Afternoon, February 5, 2019