Riot of Robins

it’s spring
and a riot of robins
whipped on wings across
my yard…males meant
to murder each other or
at least threaten such.

each day now,
copper breasts wake me
with cheery song and
pull down the sun
with lilting words.

first about, last light,
Who gives thrushes
with blue-egged nests,
and hope for change
permission to be?