A Robin

A Robin is sitting on a branch
His feet either side of a thorn
He sits there looking at me
Beetle black eyes, glossy in the morning light.
His red breast molds into white and again into brown.
He shuffles and flaps his wings, shaking of the cold.
He hops along the branch to wards me.
Then stops and cocks his head

He whistles a tune so sweet it sounds like it has come from a golden flute.

His mate flies down to him from above in the trees.
She is not as grand it stature
All brown and black
She moves over to him and chirps
He replies with two

A gun shot fires in the distance, I turn distracted.
When I turn back they are gone