I can almost feel the tremor on its breast,
    the young robin that has just landed
    on the branch with its beak open. Was it
    an interrupted repast it has fallen from?
    Acts of god, our magistrates call it, have
    a way of cutting things off from their rhythm:
    witness the quick change that has brought
    this warm air, and the quicker repulsion
    that begs for winter back. Did the robin
    fall off from its nest somehow when it parted
    its beak for the day’s first meal? The wind
    plays tricks, too, commingling with heat.
    Blown off by wayward winds, its flapping
    is futile against the violence on its wings.
    That dead cherry tree will not be a refuge
    from the rampage of funnels, would it?

    Think about it, Stick, why would weather
    changes be any wilder in our morning
    porches, when a wrecked valley nearby
    has still some of its rooftops spinning
    in the air, and hands flailing for absent
    anchors in floods swirling like giant
    toilet flushes sucking lives into limbo?
    Just asking, Stick. Changes are questions.

    —Albert B. Casuga

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