Treasury mounds—
dry fortunes of wood
chips and oak leaves
and cinders,
over which the drowsy worker
bees meander
and the hungry gray
squirrel scurries—
lie spread beneath
the palace of
the queenly robin
surveying her autumn province,
unhurried, perched on
a bony throne of
limbs—a sturdy,
open hand to hold her;
a sticky bare head, her majestic
crown—the trilling entirety of westerly
wind: now a royal
byzantium-colored cloak.
