My hoe rose and fell, loosening the hard March ground for a bed of lettuce leaves.

I saw the robin, a humdrum thing. He patrolled the piney path of ground where worms were few.

Hecocked his head, tossed needles with his bill, bore in, got nothing, began again.

Would he outlast the early spring?

In April at the top of the oak: Cherilee, cherilee, do you see? In the tree? a stylus stuck on an old turntable.

I sprinkled seeds in the pliant earth.

Was he calling for a mate?

Deep in May he’s at it still, as I pick young greens from the warm garden.

High tides of royal birds roll in: orioles, tanagers,rose-breasted grosbeaks, redstarts.

A rush of brilliant wings, a burst of piping whistles, trills and chirps, bleeps, flutes and mews.

Yet he resounds, familiar to me. I know where to find him, the old oak, same bough.

I can almost see his open bill: “Cherilee, cherilee, do you see? In the tree?”