Canter Bridge

In the lingering twilight of Springtime in Indianapolis, I notice that the Robins have returned. One young fellow told me so by crashing into the window of a basement entry, then fussing about how clumsy that must have looked and flying off. Another, a large one in dire need of a haircut, perched just now on the railing that overlooks that same entranceway.

I suspect they’ve found worms under the sodden leaves that collect down there over the winter. ‘Smart Robins!

The familiarity of this bird brings a certain quiet winsomeness to the pleasure of watching them. They are not exotic, but rather comfortable. They belong to my backyard in the way that I begin to feel that I belong in this house. There is not a lot of dressing up for robins, no posing, no calling of attention in the way the Blue Jays do when they discover I’ve put more peanuts out for them, arriving in splendid, noisy bunches that seem to proclaim ‘Jays rule!’ to everyone around.

For a Robin, things don’t get much more dramatic than a simple stunning but harmless thud into the window of my basement door.

‘Sure is good to have the Robins back.