On the frozen lawn in December, my house becomes a playground for robins.
They are cheeky birds, darting around the icy terrain and hopping on forlorn branches, each flap of their wings resounding like musical trills. Their reverbing songs carry notes high and crisp like the ascending scale on a piccolo. Robins weave patterns with their four spindly claws, each arched like a bridge and honed as a needle.
However, nothing is as prominent as the burnt orange breast of its vulnerable and warm stomach against the dulling press of snow. The rest is rather mundane, cloaked in drab grays and browns that conceal its inky eyes, which are distinguishable only by a slim band of white fur. As the wind fluffs their coats, the individual feathers puff up like clouds of dandelion wisps.
Although robins are no larger than a human hand, they have penetrating beaks that glimmer like canary yellow in the sunlight. Ideal for foraging for food such as earthworms, their slender bills are also particularly adept at crafting sturdy nests.
The robin’s sleek tail and wing feathers are considerably longer and more durable than those located on the chest, appearing more rubbery than soft. As it extends in one fell swoop, its muscles clutch together to generate maximum lift as it disappears out of the corner of my eye.
On a desolate day in January, the robin is a symbol of spring to come. The only thing left in its aftermath is a single, vermilion plume.
- Photo Credit to Brent Howard
Sophia's Lens 