Chatterbox: Inkwell

I just wrote this poem on the spur of the moment. I have read it exactly twice, once while writing it, and once while looking for grammar errors. So I haven't done anything to it yet and it's very rough, but any suggestions? Critiques? Well-meant stinging accusations? :D

One of the baby robins

From the nest just behind me

Is croched on our driveway, speckled

Chest attesting to his youth. He opens

His beak, lets go a pink squawk, hoping

For his mother to come and

Chase me away. But I refuse

To budge, and he eyes me

Fearfully, head turned

So as to better see the threat. He is hunched, and

Helpless looking. Forgetting that already,

He is out of the nest, and his parents

Know their labor is nearing an end.

Still I don't move, and he stiffens, afraid

He'll never get past this age

If he doesn't do something. So in an agony of fear,

He flies.

It is an awkward flight, strained, wings

Flapping

For all they are worth. He makes it

To a little bush not two feet

Above the ground, but up,

And that, after all, is the main thing.

In a month he will be able

To fly like his parents do,

Stealing the wind, taing its pufs

To glide like a leaf,

Float like my little cousins try so hard to do

In our pool. Someday

They'll be able to do it, and someday, too,

The robin will soar.

Ok, so now I've read it three times cause I just typed it up. :D But is the metaphor clear? To obviously stated? Convoluted? Strange cause I took no time to develop my concept? Please, I'll take even the well-meant stinging accusations mentioned above with open arms.

-EH