I'm so intent on getting to the library that I don't notice the bird until it's hopping away from my sneaker-clad feet.
I stop, and watch it hop into the used car lot.
It's a robin, a teenager from the looks of it.
It's small, not quite full grown.
Brown feathers clad it, but a few fuzzy down feathers stick up.
One is on top of his head and sticks straight up.
The mouth is the baby-yellow, still.
It looks like mustard smeared all over it's face.
The breast is brown,
not ruby red yet.
And it's too young to be afraid
of things it should be afraid of.
I whisper a hello,
and he looks back at me.
I think it's a he.
How do you tell on a bird??
He walks in zig-zags,
Feet so yellow Crayola should copyright it.
"Bird-Foot-Yellow."
The claws make soft
tip-tip-tap noises.
He chirrups.
It's not a baby-bird squeak,
but it's not the full-throat chuckle of an adult.
Just in-between.
The teenage robin looks back at me,
then cranes his head to watch for cars,
those big metal bugs
too big to eat.
The teenage robin looks back at me
one last time,
then
hops
away.
This poem
may not be good.
But I wanted to remember
the

teenage

robin.