Birds of a Feather

Instinct, duly said, is what brings the Robin
Cross her country migration, and back to her nest.
Or it brings said Youthful Robin back to the place where it was born.
Is it instinct? Or a bestowal of some strange providence?
For, at the State Park, what I find unimaginable,
Is the Cardinal in his brilliant, red plumage
And the Goldfinch in his winter black
And the golden sliver upon his tailfin,
And I look upon these beautiful specimens.
Strangely enough, I recall such people
Who are similar always at the park the same hour;
I walk through the park, and see birds of a feather
Flocking together, and I like the Blue Heron
Stand on my perch, observing them and their strange
Mein, making its impression on me.