The upsetting fact that a particular thrush
Native to America is neither a robin nor a redbreast
But why not call it a robin
It’s not like anybody’s going to confuse it
With the British species so designated
No doubt the brutal colonists who named it suffered nostalgia
For their own native land and its songbirds

Some things come into being just by naming them
Thus a strand of hair or a cigarette butt becomes a clue
Or when the sovereign dubs some schmo a knight
This is particularly true of mental processes
The hackneyed light bulb of a new idea
The premonition occasioned by
The robin’s ominous caroling