Robin

In their beaks they carry the chaos of the world,
odd strings, twigs and feathers, scrip-scraps,
the two of them all week weave together

on our front porch until, nimble and tough,
their architecture balances on our red shutter
and she tries it out for a day like a woman

nesting a hat on her head this way, then that,
flitting up, floating down, before she settles
wholly into it and sits, her shiny black eyes