When I was a kid, sighting the first Robin to land in the neighborhood was a harbinger of spring. Whether hopping along the ground in search of insects or perching proudly on a tree branch, these feathered friends reminded me that tulips and lilac blossoms are just around the corner.
Then I grew up and learned the truth. New England’s weather couldn’t care less about a Robin’s migration timetable.
Over the weekend we were served a weather smorgasbord. It started as snow, turned to sleet, and ended with torrential rain. Just to make sure we didn’t congratulate ourselves for dodging a “big one”, Mother Nature sent her son, Jack Frost, to finish the job overnight.
All the water that had pooled everywhere, because the frozen ground gave it no quarter, is now solid. This is not the first time mother and son have delivered the one-two punch. Bags of ice melt are now as rare as eggs.
That’s why when I opened the curtains this morning to find a Robin sitting atop our cherry tree, his feathers fluffed against the frigid, raging wind, I could only smile at his boundless optimism.
Spring is nowhere to be found, but here he is establishing his territory, sitting boldly on prime branch real estate, aggressively chirping at rivals both real and perceived, letting all of bird-dom know that the boy is back in town.
I’ll keep the bird feeder stocked because that’s what New Englanders of a certain age do. The little dinosaurs also expect it. When it runs low they land in the window boxes to chirp and stare impatiently at the slackers inside who’d let them starve.
They don’t realize, however, that I know nuts, seeds, mealworms, and suet are a small price to pay to have such whimsical and colorful creatures thrive among us. They’re reminders that beauty isn’t fragile. Birds take what they’re given and turn it into flight and song. And, of course, more birds.
I applaud Mr. Robin for the audacity of his early return and welcome him back to wait for spring, wherever it is, with the rest of us hearty souls.
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