When robins return…
Spring comes early to the Pacific Northwest. We begin to see the pink bunches of plum tree blossoms, purple crocus heads, and yellow primulas by early February. It’s still winter, and snow and freezing temperatures remain with some likelihood in the forecast, but that doesn’t stop nature from its eager emergence. In this temperate rainy place midwinter already starts to look like spring has sprung. I think of it as an in between season. Neither winter nor spring. It’s a brief interlude when the robins return while it feels like winter and looks like spring. I call it robin season.
Robins are my very favorite bird. They’re friendly, charming, lovely, and bright. They seem to look at you with curiosity and interest. I notice them, and they notice me. And I notice them most at the tail end of January when they flock onto the bare blackened limbs of the trees along the street where I live. They hop about in the sunny or overcast midday light going from branch to telephone wire to parked car to muddy grass along the sidewalks and in front of houses and multistory residences. Rarely alone, robins gather in small groups pecking at the sodden earth for worms and insects and anything that a bird finds tasty to eat. They raise their black beaks and sing lovely throaty calls and tweets out to each other almost like they’re calling for the early spring blossoms from the trees and bulbs.
Unlike the juncos I see all winter long, robins cloister up through the dark parts of the winter. They seclude themselves and stick to areas where berries are abundant. But as the light begins to lengthen they return cheerfully and vocally to lawns and gardens like a herald harkening that long days are here again.
Associations from childhood…
I can’t remember a time when I didn’t love robins. Maybe it’s because a robin was prominently featured in my most beloved children’s story: The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe. In the story a robin serves as an important guide for the four main characters bringing them from the disastrous ransacked home of Tumnus the Faun to their first encounter to Mr. Beaver. It’s a small part to play in the story, but somehow, for me, unforgettable. I think it’s also that the eldest of the children, Peter, says to Edmund, who is doubting whether or not to follow the robin, “They’re good birds in all the stories I’ve read.” Now, I can’t say that I had ever read a story before or after The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe in which there were any robins at all. So I cannot say whether Peter’s statement is right or wrong or based on anything of substance, but it has nevertheless stuck with me for something like 36 years of life since I read the book. When I see a robin I think of the bird in that story, and I’m inclined to suppose that the robin is of good character. I suspect this story also contributes to my association of robins with winter. Since the children enter Narnia during its enchantment under an endless winter (that never has Christmas) the connection of the robin character to the winter season has permanently cemented in my mind.
Robin season comes…
Regardless of my formative connection merging robins with winter, I think if you stop and notice the tweets and calls and songs of birds in the coming weeks you’ll hear a note or two of robin song. And if you look around at the birds dotting the lawns and chirping from trees you’ll spot a few dazzling red breasts. And while you look and listen a little longer still you may detect the sweet perfumes around you of hellebore, blossoming magnolias and witch hazels, and lightly scented snow drops, crocus, and pansies. And when you notice all these things remember that you’ve found yourself in that seasonal interlude, the place between winter and spring, where the first of things are born, and the year is pink and new and warming up, and possibilities are planted and start to grow, and the trees and grounds and streets and skies play host to happy little humble red and brown birds. You have found yourself amidst the magic of robin season.
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