A soggy robin glared at me
through kitchen sliding door.
His feathers were white-frosted
by a cold and sodden snow.
No song he sang to show his ire,
as though it was my fault
that he could not bask in the sun
or flit from branch to branch.
He asked me to stop everything
and take care of his needs.
I didn’t know what I should do
to warm him up and cheer him.
I said my migraines just predict the snow,
I wish that they could stop it.
published in Prolific Pulse
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