There hops and floats a Robin,
plump and brown and red.
Divine, round bodied and twitchy.
But wait. What have we read?
It told us they’re oh so common.
A cliche of the trees and grass.
To praise their notes, so blissful
is to sink intellectual class.
So we turn our backs and wander
pristine fields of barbed fence
in search of the mystic nightjar,
its silent flight and pretence.
A non-subscriber jogs circuits.
Rubecula spiral trees.
Our echolons (sic) weather and age.
Face value sets her free.