On their way to Yellower Climes –
Each – with a Robin’s expectation –
I – with my Redbreast –
And my Rhymes –
Emily Dickinson, as you can see from her writing, was on extremely familiar terms with Robins. Undoubtedly, she would have known about the Redbreast Convention held at my bird bath at 2:00 pm (CST) today. But, I assure you, no one informed me ahead of time. If I had been privy to this great gathering, I would have gladly displayed a big welcome sign, lettered with sunflower seeds pasted on with peanut butter. Wouldn’t that have made a tasty HELLO?
I was quite transfixed to see first two, then three, and soon a fourth stout-legged Robin gather round the bird bath rim and help themselves to any number of beaks-full of cool water. Since I myself am not fluent in Robin, I didn’t quite understand what items were on the agenda today, but I surmise it must have been something of great importance by the regal way they wiggled their throats with each precise swallow. And I could tell by their puffed-out chests and rich ruby vests that these were no less than dignitaries–top brass, I’m sure.
The meeting didn’t last long—but then birds are prone to be a bit flighty. Off they flew, flapping, dipping, zipping away. When an extremely tardy, lone Robin sauntered up to the bird bath more than 30 minutes late, I took comfort in knowing that I wasn’t the only one who’d not been notified of today’s prestigious Redbreast Convention.