Migrant

O Redwing,

with your slashed sleeves, with

your speckled breast, the livid

stripe on your brow –

how you must stand out

against

the Iceland tundra – white

or grey – as with a

stain of your warm blood;

yet here

accommodate yourself

to songthrush and mild lawn,

and to that snow

of the new season: may,

streaking the hawthorn hedge.