Robin spied a spotted uncle on her way to the Dansk outlet.
He flitted from branch to branch, his silvered wrists aflutter.
She’d once thought him a nuthatch, but he’d grown into himself.
She would never forget his bright red coat, that one fashionable fall,
or her childhood wonder at his whispered songs of relativity.
His freckles and moles had been enhanced with henna appliques
and a variety of brightly colored small round bandaids.
This is his season, she thought. Perhaps he could be lured by some chai.