Photo by France Paulsen,
Photo by France Paulsen,

Spring Flight

    Hope is a thing with feathers.

Emily Dickinson


A glint of arrant color

catches my eye

in late afternoon sun—


hundreds of January robins

aloft in pine branches.


Their breasts gleam,

like polished copper,

renew the russet-gold of autumn.


Next morning,

I hear their familiar song

before I spot pale orange


cloaked in fog,

fluttering tree to tree

chanting clear notes


to an audience of one,

an aria ephemeral.


A slight rustling among leaves,

and birds fly like years

since my last winter north.


Mid-February, a single robin

on oak’s bare limb

held promise, rebirth—


crocus, daffodils,

fresh-turned earth.


On this winter morning,

robins scatter spring,


flock upon flock take wing,

feathers stenciled on cobalt blue.


Lorraine Walker Williams


About the Poem: Biking home late one afternoon, I captured the essence of this poem from the amazing sight and sound of robins migrating north in contrast to my migration south on Sanibel. This poem can be found in my book, Fire in the Grass.