Grandma Bird

I’ll call her found art
This robin spent most of two summers
In our small back yard
Feathers salt and pepper gray
Mottled pale orange in front
Not much spring to her hops her chirp crackly

She died hidden
Under garden foliage mid-summer.
Now she is a papier-mâché likeness
Of the bird that felt at home here. She is buried
right there to feed next year’s tomatoes.

The world has a lot of work to do it seems
To feed the dollar machine change the water the air
Speed up time until it is almost gone.

Another robin is back there now
Measuring the room.