Last night as I prepared for sleep, I wrote in my journal of the moments of happiness that show up no matter how stressful life has become. I wrote of sun and lichen and of seeing a robin and getting so excited you vibrate and want to tell the whole world “Robin! Robin! Did you see the robin??? Spring is coming!”
Then I woke up and read this.
I think our calls of “Robin!!!!!!!” Are being heard and answered all over the hemisphere. 😉☺️
What a beautiful coincidence, you writing about a robin by lamplight and then waking up to this. I love the image of "Robin! Robin!" calls rippling across the hemisphere. I think you're right. Something is building out there and we're all picking up the signal. The happiness that shows up despite stress — that's the whisper song. It doesn't wait for conditions to be perfect. It just starts, quietly.
Amazingly beautiful piece. Thanks! I see from the photographs that you have a different kind of robin from the one we have here (I am in Bulgaria). Ours has a more orange breast, whereas I would say yours is almost yellow. Also, the body of the robin here is brown, not grey. Either way, a fantastic little creature.
Thank you! You're right, they're actually completely different birds that share a name. When European settlers arrived in North America, they named our bird after yours because the red breast reminded them of home. Two different birds, same impulse — to name something new after something loved. I'd like to think they both carry the same message when they sing in February.
Ours are “American Robins” with dark heads and orange below. Yours in Europe have bright orange heads, if I remember — what the English refer to in poetry as ‘Robin Redbreast.’
Can't seem to paste a photo here, but ours are indeed the 'robin redbreast', brown body and orange chest. I just searched and it seems that the two 'robins' are not related - the American one is actually a type of thrush (Turdus migratorius) while the European guy is in a group of his own. But we'll give them all an equal prize for awesomeness.
When I lived in the UK I was amazed at how delicate your robins were, in contrast to our (thrush) robins. The contrast reminds me that the variety of birds is one thing that makes our world wonderful.
I have one who comes to feed outside my window quite frequently. It is the depths of winter here - I am actually in Bulgaria - and the robin against the white snow is stunning. I think I have taken a couple of hundred photos at least! The wee bird is probably fed up with me at this stage!
As much as I enjoy the winter season’s snow cover, especially this year, I equally enjoy the coming if spring. I’ve been aware of the avian orchestra each morning becoming more intense and varied as the days grow longer.
Your essay of the Robin and spring’s imminent coming was beautiful-I really appreciated how you added small facts about the birds’ anatomy and what changes are taking place.
Thank you so much. "Avian orchestra becoming more intense and varied" is a perfect way to describe it. What you're hearing each morning is exactly what this essay is about, just on a larger scale. Each bird is going through its own version of the robin's whisper song, tuning up, rebuilding, getting ready. The fact that you're noticing the daily changes means you're listening the way the season asks us to listen. I'm glad the anatomy details landed well. I think the science makes the beauty richer rather than reducing it. Enjoy the orchestra as it builds toward the full performance.
Another wonderful post! Happy sigh. That video of the bird singing was exquisite!! The absolute essence of springtime. And the physical changes in both bird and man!! Who would have thought?! And finally crab apple sauce and its element of ‘wildness’. Superb. Thanks so much. A terrific read. 🤗🤗
Thank you for this. "Happy sigh" is exactly the response I was hoping for. I'm glad the video captured what words alone can't quite convey. There's something about actually seeing the body vibrate with song that changes how you understand it. And yes, the parallel between the bird's changes and ours surprised me too. I started with the robin and ended up learning something about my own body in February. The crab apple sauce was the unexpected gift of the whole experience. Wildness has a flavor, it turns out. I'm so glad you felt it all.
Thank you, Bill. You’ve brought poetry and song, along with a filled heart, intensely storied photographs, and a big smile. You have added the perfect finishing touch to my own Robins and crabapples experience. Standing in a snow storm watching in awe, a very well attended Robin festival, celebrating two massive and considerably endowed Crabapple trees. I do believe it is an annual event I first came across a couple of years ago. Almost every branch seemed equally filled with Robins and crabapples. The snow covered land and adjacent dirt road, dotted red over a blanket of white. I was allowed to join in the festivities as a human observer, literally standing boot to wing. It was not until later that day that a good friend told me the Robins were most likely ‘drunk’ on the fermented apples. No wonder I was within—‘reach out and touch’ range. It also explained why many Robins seemed to be walking aimlessly, or standing in place, staring. Come to think of it, while our Robins winter in VT, the end of February marks the calendar—it is time! I think I’ll go check the trees today, no invitation necessary— no dress code required: boots, hat, mitts, and a down coat—my kind of party. And a wonderful experience.
“Love returns to us in new forms. The apple becomes the bird; the bird becomes the song; the song becomes your smile.”
As Walt Whitman wrote: “ I sing the body electric”—mine and the Robin’s. You are welcome to harmonize.
This is a vivid comment. "Boot to wing" at a robin festival with two massive crab apple trees, drunk robins walking aimlessly or standing in place staring. That's an essay in itself. I can see it perfectly, the snow, the red-dotted ground, the branches heavy with birds and fruit.
The fermentation is real, and it makes for some wonderfully undignified bird behavior. I love that you stood among them without an invitation and were accepted anyway. That's the whole secret, isn't it? Just show up. I am harmonizing with you in spirit.
Thank you, Bill! I am glad you appreciated my Robin celebration. When I read a post from one of ‘my people’ on Substack I can’t help wanting to share a story. Sometimes—or as you know—more often than not—I write a way too long comment. Because truthfully, most of the few people I enjoy on Substack feel like long-distance friends, so I am excited to simply reciprocate, like a conversation l would have in person. After all, I am responding directly to you, and if someone else enjoys my tale, then I am happy to extend the ‘conversation’. I would apologize for the lengthly ones, but you know me by now: I will just do it again.
Hi from Texas where we’ve been providing safe haven for your wandering friends. I wrote in yesterday’s post (Mending the World) about the importance of providing a refuge for our winter visitors and how the robins delight us with their visits. May they have safe travels and thank goodness they have crabapples waiting wherever you are!
I love knowing that while I'm up here (in Illinois) waiting for the robins to return, someone in Texas has been providing them safe haven all winter. Thank you for taking care of our wandering friends. There's something wonderful about this connection, separated by a thousand miles but linked by the same birds. You provided the refuge, and now the crab apple trees are ready to receive them. Spring is waiting. Safe travels to all the wanderers heading north.
Hi Bill, I am so glad I found your posts. We are thinking very much along the same lines and you inspire me. I’ll take good care of your robins and send them home with love. Carolyn
Dear Bill, you are singing to my soul with your writing. With gratitude to you and to the robin, who is singing "the music of what happens" (old Irish poem.)
What a gift of a quote. "The music of what happens" says everything I was trying to say in fewer words than I used. I'll be carrying that with me on my next walk to the crab apple tree. Thank you for reading and for singing back.
Thank you Bill. And here’s the original story, from the mythological tales of the Irish warrior-poets the Fianna, who were the guardians of ancient Ireland, and their leader Fionn.
Once the Fianna spoke together of the music they thought finest.
The song of the blackbird that is highest in the hedge, said Fionn’s son Oisín.
The belling of the stag in autumn on the slopes above Lough Leane, said another.
Each one spoke in turn of the music they loved best: the baying of their hounds in the morning, the laughter of a young woman…
Good sounds all, said Fionn.
And for you, Fionn, what is the finest music?
The music of what happens, Fionn said. That is the finest music in the world.
Thank you for this marvelous essay. I heard the spring in the birdsong yesterday morning, too, as I was shoveling the 4" of wet snow that fell the day before (it's 2nd winter here in Minnesota), and it buoyed me up. And hey, if nobody was thinking about robin testes in February, we wouldn't know about them, would we? And now we do. That's how we all learn.
And now I know why the crabapple trees still have fruit through the winter instead of it all getting eaten in the fall!
"Second winter in Minnesota" made me laugh. You know the season I'm writing about better than most. And I love that the robin song found you while shoveling. That's the whisper song doing its work. It doesn't care about the snow. It knows what's coming.
The crabapple question was one of my favorites to research. The tree is smarter than we give it credit for. It's not that the birds ignore the fruit in fall. It's that the fruit isn't ready for the birds yet. Winter does the cooking. I'm glad that piece clicked for you.
I love the invitation to join the Robin into spring. I look for them every year, and follow their song down paths, and watch them sing their hearts out. I appreciate learning more about them too. The head shot photo is spectacular!
What a beautiful way to put it. If the phrase "whispering myself into spring" resonates with you, I think that means you're already doing it. The shift doesn't have to be loud or dramatic. It just has to start. Thank you for reading and for whispering along.
Remarkable, Bill! Again you’ve revealed the juncture between your soul and that of Nature. Your early rising, coupled with the patience to capture these tight shots, is your Super Power!
Last night as I prepared for sleep, I wrote in my journal of the moments of happiness that show up no matter how stressful life has become. I wrote of sun and lichen and of seeing a robin and getting so excited you vibrate and want to tell the whole world “Robin! Robin! Did you see the robin??? Spring is coming!”
Then I woke up and read this.
I think our calls of “Robin!!!!!!!” Are being heard and answered all over the hemisphere. 😉☺️
What a beautiful coincidence, you writing about a robin by lamplight and then waking up to this. I love the image of "Robin! Robin!" calls rippling across the hemisphere. I think you're right. Something is building out there and we're all picking up the signal. The happiness that shows up despite stress — that's the whisper song. It doesn't wait for conditions to be perfect. It just starts, quietly.
Thank you for carrying me with *your* song, Bill, in the form of this beautiful essay that I will hold close to me today. Thank you.
Amazingly beautiful piece. Thanks! I see from the photographs that you have a different kind of robin from the one we have here (I am in Bulgaria). Ours has a more orange breast, whereas I would say yours is almost yellow. Also, the body of the robin here is brown, not grey. Either way, a fantastic little creature.
Thank you! You're right, they're actually completely different birds that share a name. When European settlers arrived in North America, they named our bird after yours because the red breast reminded them of home. Two different birds, same impulse — to name something new after something loved. I'd like to think they both carry the same message when they sing in February.
Ah. It makes sense. Those settlers pretty much named everything after what they already had! I think it's the same message alright.
Ours are “American Robins” with dark heads and orange below. Yours in Europe have bright orange heads, if I remember — what the English refer to in poetry as ‘Robin Redbreast.’
Can't seem to paste a photo here, but ours are indeed the 'robin redbreast', brown body and orange chest. I just searched and it seems that the two 'robins' are not related - the American one is actually a type of thrush (Turdus migratorius) while the European guy is in a group of his own. But we'll give them all an equal prize for awesomeness.
When I lived in the UK I was amazed at how delicate your robins were, in contrast to our (thrush) robins. The contrast reminds me that the variety of birds is one thing that makes our world wonderful.
I have one who comes to feed outside my window quite frequently. It is the depths of winter here - I am actually in Bulgaria - and the robin against the white snow is stunning. I think I have taken a couple of hundred photos at least! The wee bird is probably fed up with me at this stage!
As much as I enjoy the winter season’s snow cover, especially this year, I equally enjoy the coming if spring. I’ve been aware of the avian orchestra each morning becoming more intense and varied as the days grow longer.
Your essay of the Robin and spring’s imminent coming was beautiful-I really appreciated how you added small facts about the birds’ anatomy and what changes are taking place.
Thank you! Keep enjoying the coming of spring!
Thank you so much. "Avian orchestra becoming more intense and varied" is a perfect way to describe it. What you're hearing each morning is exactly what this essay is about, just on a larger scale. Each bird is going through its own version of the robin's whisper song, tuning up, rebuilding, getting ready. The fact that you're noticing the daily changes means you're listening the way the season asks us to listen. I'm glad the anatomy details landed well. I think the science makes the beauty richer rather than reducing it. Enjoy the orchestra as it builds toward the full performance.
Another wonderful post! Happy sigh. That video of the bird singing was exquisite!! The absolute essence of springtime. And the physical changes in both bird and man!! Who would have thought?! And finally crab apple sauce and its element of ‘wildness’. Superb. Thanks so much. A terrific read. 🤗🤗
Thank you for this. "Happy sigh" is exactly the response I was hoping for. I'm glad the video captured what words alone can't quite convey. There's something about actually seeing the body vibrate with song that changes how you understand it. And yes, the parallel between the bird's changes and ours surprised me too. I started with the robin and ended up learning something about my own body in February. The crab apple sauce was the unexpected gift of the whole experience. Wildness has a flavor, it turns out. I'm so glad you felt it all.
Thank you, Bill. You’ve brought poetry and song, along with a filled heart, intensely storied photographs, and a big smile. You have added the perfect finishing touch to my own Robins and crabapples experience. Standing in a snow storm watching in awe, a very well attended Robin festival, celebrating two massive and considerably endowed Crabapple trees. I do believe it is an annual event I first came across a couple of years ago. Almost every branch seemed equally filled with Robins and crabapples. The snow covered land and adjacent dirt road, dotted red over a blanket of white. I was allowed to join in the festivities as a human observer, literally standing boot to wing. It was not until later that day that a good friend told me the Robins were most likely ‘drunk’ on the fermented apples. No wonder I was within—‘reach out and touch’ range. It also explained why many Robins seemed to be walking aimlessly, or standing in place, staring. Come to think of it, while our Robins winter in VT, the end of February marks the calendar—it is time! I think I’ll go check the trees today, no invitation necessary— no dress code required: boots, hat, mitts, and a down coat—my kind of party. And a wonderful experience.
“Love returns to us in new forms. The apple becomes the bird; the bird becomes the song; the song becomes your smile.”
As Walt Whitman wrote: “ I sing the body electric”—mine and the Robin’s. You are welcome to harmonize.
This is a vivid comment. "Boot to wing" at a robin festival with two massive crab apple trees, drunk robins walking aimlessly or standing in place staring. That's an essay in itself. I can see it perfectly, the snow, the red-dotted ground, the branches heavy with birds and fruit.
The fermentation is real, and it makes for some wonderfully undignified bird behavior. I love that you stood among them without an invitation and were accepted anyway. That's the whole secret, isn't it? Just show up. I am harmonizing with you in spirit.
Thank you, Bill! I am glad you appreciated my Robin celebration. When I read a post from one of ‘my people’ on Substack I can’t help wanting to share a story. Sometimes—or as you know—more often than not—I write a way too long comment. Because truthfully, most of the few people I enjoy on Substack feel like long-distance friends, so I am excited to simply reciprocate, like a conversation l would have in person. After all, I am responding directly to you, and if someone else enjoys my tale, then I am happy to extend the ‘conversation’. I would apologize for the lengthly ones, but you know me by now: I will just do it again.
Please do!
Hi from Texas where we’ve been providing safe haven for your wandering friends. I wrote in yesterday’s post (Mending the World) about the importance of providing a refuge for our winter visitors and how the robins delight us with their visits. May they have safe travels and thank goodness they have crabapples waiting wherever you are!
I love knowing that while I'm up here (in Illinois) waiting for the robins to return, someone in Texas has been providing them safe haven all winter. Thank you for taking care of our wandering friends. There's something wonderful about this connection, separated by a thousand miles but linked by the same birds. You provided the refuge, and now the crab apple trees are ready to receive them. Spring is waiting. Safe travels to all the wanderers heading north.
Hi Bill, I am so glad I found your posts. We are thinking very much along the same lines and you inspire me. I’ll take good care of your robins and send them home with love. Carolyn
Dear Bill, you are singing to my soul with your writing. With gratitude to you and to the robin, who is singing "the music of what happens" (old Irish poem.)
What a gift of a quote. "The music of what happens" says everything I was trying to say in fewer words than I used. I'll be carrying that with me on my next walk to the crab apple tree. Thank you for reading and for singing back.
Thank you Bill. And here’s the original story, from the mythological tales of the Irish warrior-poets the Fianna, who were the guardians of ancient Ireland, and their leader Fionn.
Once the Fianna spoke together of the music they thought finest.
The song of the blackbird that is highest in the hedge, said Fionn’s son Oisín.
The belling of the stag in autumn on the slopes above Lough Leane, said another.
Each one spoke in turn of the music they loved best: the baying of their hounds in the morning, the laughter of a young woman…
Good sounds all, said Fionn.
And for you, Fionn, what is the finest music?
The music of what happens, Fionn said. That is the finest music in the world.
Wonderful first read of the day!
Thank you for this marvelous essay. I heard the spring in the birdsong yesterday morning, too, as I was shoveling the 4" of wet snow that fell the day before (it's 2nd winter here in Minnesota), and it buoyed me up. And hey, if nobody was thinking about robin testes in February, we wouldn't know about them, would we? And now we do. That's how we all learn.
And now I know why the crabapple trees still have fruit through the winter instead of it all getting eaten in the fall!
"Second winter in Minnesota" made me laugh. You know the season I'm writing about better than most. And I love that the robin song found you while shoveling. That's the whisper song doing its work. It doesn't care about the snow. It knows what's coming.
The crabapple question was one of my favorites to research. The tree is smarter than we give it credit for. It's not that the birds ignore the fruit in fall. It's that the fruit isn't ready for the birds yet. Winter does the cooking. I'm glad that piece clicked for you.
Chest-whispered sweet songs,
an “internal harmony.”
Robins signal spring.
...
Crab apples feed birds,
fuel their flight, nourish their flesh,
and thawing humans’.
Crab apple sweetens,
robin trembles on the branch.
One gift making rounds.
The beauty of this was a song. Thank you Bill!!!!
I love the invitation to join the Robin into spring. I look for them every year, and follow their song down paths, and watch them sing their hearts out. I appreciate learning more about them too. The head shot photo is spectacular!
Beautiful. I too feel as if I am whispering myself into spring this year. It’s such a wonderful way to think about the shifting into a new season.
What a beautiful way to put it. If the phrase "whispering myself into spring" resonates with you, I think that means you're already doing it. The shift doesn't have to be loud or dramatic. It just has to start. Thank you for reading and for whispering along.
Remarkable, Bill! Again you’ve revealed the juncture between your soul and that of Nature. Your early rising, coupled with the patience to capture these tight shots, is your Super Power!
I read and the re-read these beautiful words....waiting for spring.