At my yard’s golden hour, twenty robins
feed, scattering across the lawn,
beaks diving, feet flitting—a controlled chaos.

This summer, our dog found a rabbit’s nest
hidden under the sage. He left but one eye,
its retina, lake-lucid. Our cat brings us birds
whose wings still quiver. I’ve learned
to cradle their warm bodies with paper towels.

After school, when my daughter throws open
the front door and announces in disgust,
This country is going to shit!,

I want to tell her about the roaming
robin flock feasting on earthworms
and replenishing the earth, but I don’t.

Through the yellowing maples, coolness
creeps. The hungry cat stands behind the glass. 
Just before the turn, a blush
of red-throated angels on a soft bed.