There is a fine distance between myself and the robin.
There are seven yards.
There is the height of the branch.
There is the wall, and the window of my kitchen, the plate glass, the plaster, the brick.
There is my chair
And myself, perched upon it.
Me, still as the robin, enjoying this perfect, soft space
Where I can watch, unheard, unseen
Content with companionship from afar;
Content to observe, to know
Something other than myself, without myself being known;
Content to make this something part of me,
To live within my mind, my fantasies,
Allowing me to increase the distance
With a steady, slow retreat
Into a world away from this noise and hurt.