But as I have been sitting here at 1:30 in the afternoon, by the fire, watching the accumulation of snow that has been falling since 7:30 this morning, I did see a robin fluffed up and hunched indignantly against the February cold. It was eating the miniature crab apples, in appearance more like cherries. These still cling burnished red from the branches in abundance.
This robin would obviously prefer to nosh on a worm. It quickly drops each bitter fruit that it picks as it flutters from branch to branch. Out another widow I could see another tree, bare of fruit but laden with birds. And on one branch sat another robin with its bright orange chest puffed out, seemingly oblivious to a vibrant blue jay sitting close to it, pondering. On a branch below was the chipper chickadee. This trinity is a rare sight, at least for me. There should be no robins up here on this hill at this time of year. Any that did not fly south should be huddled in the thick trees of the deep valley across the field.
But this is no ordinary winter. Last week there was a flock of 30 or more robins on the snow covered lawn. Rarely, if at all, have I seen robins flocking. My eyes were wide in disbelief. As the weather goes back and forth in an instant from mild and snowless to frigid and icy, who can blame a bird for being confused. My neighbour has even see a number of bluebirds in her trees, a rare sighting even in the warmest days of spring.
This winter has seen an unusual array of climate patterns. I can handle snow. It's the snow mixed with rain and freezing rain, and the snow on top of layers of ice that has become the bane of my existence this winter. But then, I guess a challenge is good for one's constitution. But I do feel like that indignant robin, all puffed up and bewildered.
