I spied a bird with a ring round its eye; it grabbed a twig and flew up high.
Into a spruce, Norway, I believe, onto a nest almost hidden from me.
The twig was dropped, then moved around; she used her red breast to press it down.
Hopping right up, cocking an eye, she looked all around then dropped from the sky.
Down to the ground with more work to do, she looked for more twigs, this time two.
She didn't just grab the first one she saw, perhaps some were too thick, others too small.
Very particular, searching for the one just right, she flew up again, almost out of sight.
I felt like I was watching something secret, not for me, but the nest was right there, being built in my tree.
Birds build their nests, they don't have a choice; something inside them says, "Build!", a persistent small voice.
As I watched the industrious robin flit through the air, I was thankful that the tree was there.