It happens every spring;
a sacred offering to the God of Winter
who must surrender,
eventually,
to Spring and the light
of a new moon.
The robins return with purpose.
Their red breasts blind with intuition.
They tilt their heads as if deep in thought,
waiting for the ground to tremble;
maybe even slightly quake,
brilliant divination beneath the skin of the earth
to find with that frisson of wisdom,
the worm,
slinking and submerged from the beak
and almost hidden
from the thrill of the hunt.
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