When I was a little girl, living in Indiana, the first sightings of the Robin meant the coming end of long and cold and snowy winters. Three different times in the thirty years I lived in the Southwest, I saw Robins. There, they came in huge flocks, rested in the tree branches and on the walls of the back yards, and then flew off, not to be seen again. It was an awesome sight.
I live in the South now, and I have seen Robins in much smaller flocks several times this winter. Each time this happened, I stood at my kitchen window, feeling excited. This morning, as I walked to and from early Mass, I heard the songbirds, spotted several Robins, observed some Forsythia blossoms popping out, and I could feel the anticipation of the coming new season.
It is bitter cold this morning. Well, bitter for here. The upper Midwest is blanketed in a fresh snow. I know. I talked to my sister, who spent last night plowing out the family and her own drive, so she and our other sister could get to work at their hospital. My niece posted a Facebook picture of her face and hair covered in snow. They are sick of it.
Winters are not as long and cold now, as they used to be, but I guess that depends on where you live. I’m not even going to touch on Global Warming. I do know I realized this morning that, for me, seeing Robins gives me a feeling of hope. That was the source of excitement I was feeling.
Hopefulness is a wonderful state to be in, and North Carolina is my second favorite state.
Horton Hears Herself 