It Isn’t the Robin

It isn’t the robin who draws me

He only sings for the spring

Or the ruby-throated hummer

I don’t miss til I see her again

It’s not the starling or the jay

It’s not even the song sparrow

It isn’t bluebird or indigo bunting

Or even the friendly junco

Who perches on snow-laden boughs

Graces my frosted sill

And flits with joy – now here, now there –

And answers when I whistle

Who’s looking for me, waiting for me

Convincing me I still love

February here in Marquette

(or February at all)

It’s Black-Capped Chickadee that calls

Draws me to come Home

It’s Black-Capped Chickadee that Sings

Even in the Snow.

©2023 Sarah Elizabeth Moore

From the shores of Wicket Lake,



2 thoughts on “It Isn’t the Robin”

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