The robins’ fall from grace

When spring comes, the appearance of the first robin landing on the deck railing fills me with hope. It is a sign that the never-ending winter is nearly over and that soon warm temperatures will return. In the near future, there will be four Easter-blue ovals of eggs in nests everywhere. Each chirp from the robin makes me smile and I often send a text or picture to friends and relatives of this beauty of nature.

But oddly, spring brings a strange phenomenon to the robins in our yard. When the males are hunting for a girlfriend or feel a perceived threat by another bird, they attack viciously. It’s sort of like young adults on a college campus during the fall semester. The robins will often fly full speed into the windows of our house when they see their own reflection and mistakenly perceive it as an opponent or a gorgeous lover. They start ramming the glass early in the morning on those first spring days. I’ve put newspaper in the windows, and I’ve left the windows in their typically dirty, cob-webby state hoping to protect the birds from their own misguidance. Most just bump their heads, shake it off and fly away, ready to attack again. Some, the most romantic perhaps, stay stunned on the ground for a few minutes before recovering. And then, one or two a season have sustained a Kamikaze hit that ends their dating days and are buried under the old elm tree in the corner of the garden.

In the meantime, like the human species where the males are single-focused on conquering, the females watch the males hit their heads against the glass while they – the females – meticulously build a nest.

Aww… nature…. It is a wondrous thing, I think to myself as I hear the cheerful chirping and the shadows of soaring birds scan across my garden as I work to get things ready for summer.

I usually let robins build their nests where they want to in the glow of those first spring days. Sure, where the nests are located becomes a little messy, but I’m charmed by the architecture of the nests and the creativity in finding building materials. A piece of fabric woven in. Some hair from cleaning out my hairbrush in the back yard. Some Easter basket grass that blew away during the celebration.

And then come those amazingly perfect blue eggs. The blue is so unique that you want to buy a dress that color with matching shoes. You want to decorate the living room with a new coat of paint if only you could find that color. You want to paint a masterpiece that features that blue, but it is impossible to get the color perfect.

And then the babies come. They crack through the blue and they look wet and newborn for a couple of days. Their skin is translucent, and they stretch their necks out of their alien bodies and demand food. It is so entertaining to watch the harried parents try to keep up with the demand. Soon the feathers come out a few at a time, like moustache hairs on a middle school boy. Not long after that, the babies are fat with full feathers, and they scold you if you get near the nest. They puff up and grimace like they will hurt you if you take one more step.

They are so cute. Too soon they leave the nest, and you are sad to see them go, sort of like watching your child leave for college.

But luckily the sadness dissipates as you are distracted by the ripening of the strawberries in the strawberry patch. The red, juicy orbs entice you with promises of jellies and jams and strawberry pies. You watch as the strawberries reach the peak of ripeness, and you go inside to get a bowl to catch your ruby fruit. When you come out again, a flock of robins rises like one out of the bed of strawberries, each dripping with juice from their beaks, leaving only pieces of strawberries behind.

“You $#(& birds! Get your #$%@ selves out of my garden!” you holler, fist raised to the sky. The love affair with the robin is temporarily over once again.