139. Robins Keep Their Secrets

Suppose for a moment

they do not migrate south

for the winter as everyone assumes

but instead don black hoods

and abandon leaf strewn lawns

for the white freedom of December skies.

Were you to look just so

you might see flocks of them

flashing their fiery badges

where the sun has barely cleared

the tops of distant trees.

And were you walking in the woods,

where ice is just beginning

to skim the creek that’s pooling

behind the fallen sycamores and oaks,

if you listened, you might hear them

scratching in the bracken,

see their shadows mirrored

in the surface of the stream

as they bow to drink

at the swifter narrow sluices.

— Stephen Meats

Stephen Meats has taught literature and creative writing at Pittsburg State University in Kansas since 1979. He has published poems and short stories in various journals, and his book of poems, Looking for the Pale Eagle (1993) was published by Woodley Memorial Press. He has been poetry editor of The Midwest Quarterly since 1985.