The little robin skips along
In pensive trance singing no song.
Alone it paces little steps
And pulls sweet worms from dirty depths.
"Little robin with burnt-orange breast
Where is it that you build your nest?
No companions, are you desolate?"
The silent avian turns away
Hopping to where a large worm sways.
I wonder if he lives alone
Or has family waiting at his home.
A flock of sparrows lands.
The sight of his friends is grand.
"Your friends have arrived little bird!"
Yet they gather in a separate herd.
"Are they jealous of your plumage,
Of your red-orange fringe?"
Serene the robin flies to the sky
He is set apart; as am I.
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