Blue Country Magic

On the Fly

The robin with the white wing
nests again in the spruce
we stole from the queer man
who lives up the street.
Stolen trees grow better
than purchased products.
The bird likes this one. Her
three eggs rest in the little
stick circle, comfortable even
in Mama's absence. She chatters
from a nearby wild cherry,
fussing at my impertience
as I peer into her home.
The eggs are brilliant
in color, larger than expected.
How can a tiny bird give
such large things, I ask
no one. As if I expect
some god to speak, offer me
stories or reasons why
the robin's eggs are blue.