Two robins stand,
jump flutter fly drop
back to the ground.
Stand again.
Up they go once more, quivering bodies
touching in the free lofty air
above me. They fly
or wrestle, breasts swooshing orange
against the blue sky.
Their faces touch briefly
and part.
Coming together for a feathered instant
and then up and around they fly again
never staying still.
I pluck a flower from the earth,
hold it out to them, my offering.
The robins move through the air
oblivious and free. Beaks touching, wings
touching, together then apart but clinging one to the other.
I stand, ignored, a spring flower in my hand.
July 4th 