Robins’ Return

Originally published May 1, 2022

The robins are back.

My cat, Petey, was the first to spot them. He and I were locked in a battle of wills at the time. Petey, perched on my piano with haunches tensed and waggling defiantly, was preparing a disruptive pounce onto the laptop on which I was attempting to work. I was trying to warn him off in colorful English, but he only understands when it’s convenient to his purposes. Abruptly, he broke eye contact and turned away toward the window. Deep in his throat, he let out a low, murderously soft warble.

The object of his hatred was Momma Robin, squatting in fat, fearless disarray on the deck rail outside. She’s a bit of a shambles this year, but in her defense, it’s been a strange sort of Spring in Central Pennsylvania. We’ve had alternating heat waves and blizzards well into April, a cruel back and forth that has lured daffodils out of the ground only to ice them over days later. It’s light early in the morning and long into the evening, yet I’m shoveling my car out from four or five inches of snow and we still have the heavy down duvet on reserve at the foot of our bed.

It’s hard not to draw parallels to the ebb and swell of pandemic we’re simultaneously trying to navigate.

Cases drop, and so do mask mandates. We cautiously begin to emerge from our Zoom and remote-work burrows. We host guests for an indoor meal at last, feeling strangely furtive after months of caution. At the same time, a chill wind of variants seems to be blowing over from Europe. A Chinese friend can’t see her parents for the third Spring running; they are locked down again on the mainland. It’s a new phase. It’s the same old story. There’s reason for hope. There’s reason for anxiety. We gather again, shielding our eyes from the glare of in-person meetings and trying to remember how to walk in high-heel shoes. We retreat, fearing the rogue sniffle that may be hayfever but may be Covid 19. The sun is shining, but it seems like winter just refuses to let go.

The robins are old-timers. They raised two broods of chicks in a ramshackle nest built on top of my porchlight last year, though only the late summer hatchlings survived to adulthood. The year before, their nest blew over in a thunderstorm before the eggs were even laid. Yet they return, stubborn, punctual, optimistic. It’s time. Life goes on. There’s risk and there’s reward. The season will change, the winter will have to give in, and the summer will come.

Fun with Scaffolding

Takeaway & City Stroll in the Dark