El Laberinto

Bet in the wet it's scary,
circles of hedge above our heads.

Dry season, April, we can see
five or six rows through

so no worries. At the center
a high gazebo, with Escher

mazes morphing. We scan
the whole garden

and beyond. Then backtrack,
perverse, seek out

the dead ends.
A nesting

clay-colored robin
regards us, her beak

trailing untrimmed
a waist-length

beard of moss.
When her mouth's

not full,
she sings the rain.  end