Continued:
The first flock of geese lands on meadows covered with several feet of snow and stay overnight honking in the darkness. A killdeer peeps past the studio window at 10 p.m., and those ducks are flying to somewhere else over our icy ponds. They all arrive for good before the robins, as soon as they can make a living here. You wonder what they do find to exist on. The Sandhill cranes return while their feed grounds are still snowbound, even before the creek's gone out. The blackbirds are some of the earliest to stay and stake out their territories. They roost in the cottonwoods in back of the house for more than a month. The marsh hawks, horned larks, juncos and curlews are back before the robins, even some sparrows. I put out seeds to supplement what they might find on the horse feed ground, in the corral or the baring hillsides.
Today the wind is moaning around the eaves trying to tear the roof off the house. A winter storm warning, the weather report says. I think of the baby calves and hope they find protection in the sagebrush. Loose things squeak and creak and rattle. We have to hold onto the storm door so its not ripped off the hinges again. A pair of bright bluebirds tries to find shelter. I throw some dog food out for the crows and they and the magpies take it hungrily. The wind shakes the budding cottonwood limbs, the small pines in the yard and the tops of the sage. It knocks down the drifts that remain. I've been charting the progress of the robins in the last weeks. First seen down in LaBarge, then in Big Piney where the snow's been off weeks ahead of ours. Friends in Pinedale who telephone have robins in their yard. Then I saw some a week ago on a trip to town, on a fence in Cowley's field. I hear a rumor about a guy in Big Piney who buys night-crawlers for the robins in his yard when they first arrive.
That's the thing. Robins need the ground to be bare and unfrozen enough for the earthworms to come near the surface and insects to be active. As soon as that happens they'll be out in my garden eyeing the soil, or cocking their heads to listen for a worm underground that will be their next meal. Shortly after that robin pairs will be raising peeping babies, kept busy bringing lots of food on the robin menu to the nest. They glean insects from the garden so thoroughly that I need no pesticides. They're often tame enough that nests are built where grandkids can peek in at the nearly naked pink tiny bodies with gaping bills that open and beg wobbly towards any movement. Children can find beautiful bits of brilliant turquoise shell - amazingly like the summer sky. Sometimes an old nest blows down in the wind, and you can see how neatly it’s made of mud and dried grass with a hole in the bottom where it attaches to the tree limb or other support.
Anyway, I'm anxious to see the first robins in my yard. When they arrive, I will know for certain it's truly spring. I long to hear their cheery song again and watch them raise their family, to see the young robins wearing spotted breasts appear, learning how to live in the robin world. We could learn lots from watching them do their jobs with industry and happiness. It’s a sign that it’s the nicest time for me to be outside, gardening or hiking or sitting next to the river under a pine tree, listening to running water - a sound long absent - like the robins song.
When autumn comes and robins fly south to continue their routine agenda, it will be silent and lonely again without their presence and fine singing through the long Wyoming Winter. We'll be watching again for his bright redbreast bobbing along in our front yard and listening for his own sweet song.
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