There are flocks of robins, but they aren't getting any worms. The windchill has been below zero, the temperature below freezing for days and days.
This is on Lakeshore. I was afraid the robin was injured, because it allowed me to get so close. But it did fly, and then I felt bad for disturbing it in this bitter cold when it was hunkered down trying to be warm.
I spent the morning working on another poem about my mother's death. I don't think it's done; it's sort of disjointed. So I posted it at Half-formed as a draft. Then, I continued to work on it and posted another, later draft here. That's all I've done so far today.
Sometimes I worry that writing poems is a waste of time. I'm not sure how it helps the world, does anyone any good or helps our family. It might help me sort out my feelings. Which I guess is good. But perhaps not if I spend a whole day at a single poem, and then more revising it later. I don't know. Wahn.