Field Of Early Robins Poem by Daniel Bourke

In this field of early robins, the dewy undergrowth dampens
my socks, freezes my feet

Rare foxes sleuth between briars and sticks
Afoot before dawn for some hidden affairs
What curious errands are theirs?

Red breasted troubadours, their whistling slang
makes the rounds, carrying thoughts above ground
marking me as foreign

In this field of early robins, you know the paths
your soaked face down amongst thistles and grass,
Nostrils for eyes - I wonder what scenes do they stir in your mind

Throaty crows sound out a triumph, airing a death
Madly I imagine a table is set, a wriggling spread, unmoving eyes
upon pivoting heads and their avian prayers being said