The robins have returned to this little corner of the upper midwest. The sight of the first robin brings a flicker of giddy warmth to the soul of a northerner. Spring is coming.
Unlike the furry creature from Pennsylvania that is snatched from its’ winter slumber to “predict” the coming of spring, the robin is the real deal. Robins, not groundhogs, are the harbingers of spring. The return of the robin doesn’t bring in the media hoopla of that prophetic sleepy rodent nor the clock-watching flock from Capistrano. Robins are unassuming. Modest. They show up when they’re ready and are quite content to avoid media attention.
I will admit that I did not have visual confirmation of the robins. It was snowing. The wind was blowing. My hat was tugged low on my head. Had I looked up a snowflake would have been hurled into my eye causing permanent blindness. Mock me if you will but snowflakes are ice crystals and crystal is sharp. But I digress.
It was the robin song that I heard. Of course I doubted it at first but it continued and I was pleased. I don’t need to see the robin to know it is present. Like all birds, robins have their distinctive song, plus it was early morning. Robins are the first birds to rise in the morning and the last to the nest at night. Modest and hard working.
“Hey, Marge, feels like it’s warming up. What say we head north and see if the worms are wiggling?”
Upon arrival: “Doesn’t look like the worms are warm yet, Phil. There are some lovely berries still clinging to the trees and bushes. Let’s stay and set up shop.”
The human, standing at the kitchen window with a cup of coffee in hand, says, “Hey Phil, the robins are back.”