Robin

Hopped from the hedge to the ground near the wheelie bin
to stab with its thorn-tip at the gravel and dirt.
I kept still, surprised at its fearlessness; maybe the one
my aunt mentioned, before last spring and her final stroke.
Even when I moved it only bounced slightly aside,

into a sunny gap in the leaves, bubbling its gassy burnt-orange song:
bright as the rust-gilded cans my friend used to paint and arrange
along with bird skulls in his window-frame ossuary; scrape
of colour, hopefully quick enough to escape cats that patrol
this stretch (I will leave something out on a safe windowsill).

Winter hasn't bit and I've already plucked you like a bauble,
to offer in exchange nothing, crumbs fit for the bin, and less
than nothing: what these words spring from, a flurry
of neurons firing, unfledged song, hedged bets.