Why is he just sitting?

Why is he sitting so still?

He does not turn his head as I come close.

He hears me, I can tell,

But not one muscle moves.

His eyes are so wide they are round,

down and yellow and black.

.

The window blinds are up and

The near-naked tree is still, no wind.

I crouch, imitate his stillness and look.

The news hour’s painful news mumbles from the floor below.

And there it is, perched on the autumn branch:

The robin, red breast muted by the shadow.

Finnegan, his fur beginning to twitch, and

I wait for the bird to fly.

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