Don Fisher lives and writes in Chicopee and has been writing for over 30 years. His collection of poems On the Edge of Grace is soon to be published by Human Error Press. He is surviving the lockdown by cooking, drinking red wine, reading poetry and listening to punk rock, hip-hop, and old-school country.
OUTSIDE
Outside
rain so light
it hardly qualifies
as precipitation.
Birds are out
manic mockingbirds
get me wondering
about evolution
and how they got to be
call collectors.
Robins hop
across wet grass
cock their heads
one way
then the other
listening for worms.
I remember the robin
last year
who would stand
under our suet cage
fly up
hover
peck out
a morsel of fat
then back down
to terra firma.
In nature
the robin
does not know
it’s a robin.
No one ever said
“You are a robin
when you’re not flying
you hug the earth.”
DNA
instinct
whatever.
That robin
maybe tired of worms
broke the chain.
Me?
I was tired
of sitting at home
and forced myself
to don a maroon ball-cap
bright orange slicker
and take a walk.
I broke the chain also
inertia
boredom
malaise
dread.
The birds were out
even one
I couldn’t identify
that was probably…