It is 26 degrees, and the crabapples have turned to sauce on the trees. There is a blanket of snow and a world locked in ice. It seems as if times are hard, yet the robin sings. He watches the rising sun, feeling the warmth of the first rays of light. His orange breast and eyes aglow.
I watch the robin perched above me. I can hear another robin singing off in the distance. I look through the robin above my head to try and see the singer. I scan the trees and wires off in the distance, looking for the source of the song, but my eyes, following cues from my ears, are drawn back to the robin above me.
I scan the close robin’s throat for a sign of movement. His bill and throat are still. I slow down and take a closer look. I think I can see his whole body shaking with song. I look more closely, but I am not sure. He seems to be perfectly still. I detect a slight movement in his tail. Now, it is clear. The tip of his tail is subtly rising and falling in rhythm with his song. He is humming.
I am moved to tears by this realization. I stand and listen for as long as he sings, hoping to absorb contentment from him, my early morning companion. He pulls me into his orbit of joy. At this moment, I realize we receive more than we give. We leave some fruit on the tree for the birds, and a content robin hums a soft tune in our front yard. I went out at first light to observe him the next two mornings, and he was there humming his song, coaxing the sun up over the horizon.
February could be the month of the humming moon. The cool white light of the moon illuminates the night and softens the transition to daylight. How many other birds and animals are basking in the winter light, humming a little tune, a song of contentment, a celebration of the sun and moon? I walk through our neighborhood and listen for more humming. Some robins are calling at full volume, but I find a few other hummers. Maybe they are introverts, taking time to warm up for a performance.
Our crabapple tree now takes on more significance in my mind. Our humming robin would not be in our front yard every morning if it were not for the crabapples. He spends a big part of the day perched in the tree surrounded by fruit. He eats like a king, with food at every turn. He tosses apples aside to find the ones that suit him just so. He is looking for a crabapple that he can tear to pieces. If it’s too soft and the fruit separates from the tree when he grabs it, he tosses it aside. He is surrounded by lavish abundance.
This small tree gives of itself year-round in the form of ephemeral spring flowers, buzzing bees, shining leaves, shade, pints of jelly, and the sound of contentment hummed on cold winter mornings.
I want to lie down next to a squirrel as he eats a crabapple under our tree to see if he is humming, too. Maybe the whole world is thrumming with contentment.
I agree; we humans receive more than we give to the birds (and other animals) who deign to visit us and sometimes comune with us. I am in Toronto and it can get cold; one January morning it was minus 17°C, which is about 0°F.
I had to go shopping for food and I parked the car, I heard a symphony of song. About a dozen American sparrows were sitting on the roof, singing their hearts out in the midst of a mid-January deep freeze. It was so unexpected; so out of place.
I went back to the car and cried with tears of joy, it was so touching and beautiful.
I love the way you see. It makes me open my eyes wider.