Reflections on the First Week of Spring – Robin Safari
3-4-18 Robin 6
Boots
thudded on the porch steps. The porch gate scraped across cement.
Spence
had left five minutes earlier for a day in Cleveland. Why was he
back?
The
front door
swung
open, and Spence stepped
inside. “Half a
dozen robins are on the garage bank. You might want their picture.”
“Ooooooooooooo.”
In
the past, robins
arrived at
Wells Wood
in March, not
February 21. Maybe
the
balmy
temperatures, rising
to
62ºF
(17ºC)
that afternoon, encouraged
robins to come early. “Did they find any
worms?”
Spence adjusted his beret.
“They hopped and flapped their wings. They’re males staking out
territory.”
“Thanks for coming back.”
He winked and closed the door
behind him.
I pulled on a sweatshirt and
boots, attached the zoom lens to my camera, and hurried outside. Wind
whipped my hair, clanged all four wind chimes, and drove clouds
across the morning sky. Deer Creek roared in the valley.
Eyes scanning the grassy bank
by the garage, I walked through the north garden and inhaled
fragrance of humus. No robins. Not a single chirp or cheery-up cheerily.
Maybe they flew to the south garden?
I turned around.
Behind the house, a robin
hopped off the tractor path and disappeared between the old pine
stand and the evergreen nursery.
I hustled down the tractor
path. Mud oozed onto my boots.
The robin, on the ground
below a white pine, spotted me and flew into the tree.
I pointed the zoom lens.
The automatic focus motor
wound up and ground down. It couldn't focus with the robin behind
twigs.
I stepped to the side for a
view with fewer twigs.
The robin stepped behind a
clump of needles.
The lens wound up and
ground down.
Read
the Nikon handbook and learn how to choose manual focus.
Wouldn’t
help with all the intervening branches.
Lazy.
Hush.
I’m busy.
The robin and I continued our
slow dance three quarters of the way around the tree until I got an
angle of him behind a single branch.
I pointed the zoom lens at
the robin and pushed the shutter release. The lens wound up and
ground down, wound up and ground down, wound up and ground down. The
camera couldn’t decide whether to focus on the branch or the bird. Sheesh. “Take the picture already,” I whispered to the camera.
The
shutter release clicked, and the robin soared to a maple at the edge
of the woods.
Eighty feet up amidst a slew of branches? No chance for a picture.
Besides, I didn’t want to discourage the robin from choosing Wells
Wood for his summer residence.
When
Spence came home later that night, I opened the single picture of the
robin on my computer screen. “It’s not very good. I glimpsed the
robin’s eye through the lens, but the automatic focus wouldn’t
settle.”
Spence
squinted at the photo. “The red tummy’s obvious. But you’re
right. The photo isn’t good.”
For
the rest of the week every time Spence opened the door, I said, “If
you see a robin, let me know.”
Thursday
he said, “Okay.”
Friday
he said, “Do
I have to come back right away? Can
I tell you after my walk?”
Saturday,
he
said, “If
I see one, I tell it to fly over and tap on your window while you
quilt.”
Sunday
George sneaked
outside when
Spence fetched
firewood.
Spence turned to me.
“George said he has to go out
and look for robins for you.”
The
following week, temperatures
dropped to the fifties and high forties (9º–14ºC).
I didn’t ask Spence to watch for robins, but I searched―in
vain.
At
the end of the week, the temperatures dropped to freezing. Even
though we’d never seen a robin in
February before,
I
gave up on
a robin story and
roughed
out
a blog about our
son’s birthday celebration.
Placing
a
period for
the last sentence, I
glanced from my
computer to Spence writing Rhino!↑. “Do
you have time to listen to my story?”
He
tapped keys. “Give me a minute.”
I
looked through the sliding glass door into the sunny south garden. A
black silhouette, the shape of a robin, scooted
across the grass between the asparagus patch and the
strawberry bed.
Robin?
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| 3-22-18 South Garden Robin 1 |
I
set my computer on the coffee table, threw on a
jacket, and
slipped
my bare feet into boots. Grabbing
my camera, I said, “I’ll be right back,” and dashed out the
door.
I
tiptoed down the porch step―hard
to do in boots,
but I didn’t want to scare the bird.
My
boots crunched snow on
the tractor path behind the house. So
much for a
quiet pursuit.
The
bird cocked its head over its
shoulder and stared at me. That beady
eye had to be a robin’s. If
only I could see
its breast.
Keeping
twenty yards between the bird and me, I focused and pressed the
shutter release. Click.
I
inched through the garden.
The
bird adjusted its stance to keep its back to me.
Sheesh.
I giant stepped ahead of the bird and saw a
bright red breast. I took a flurry
of photos while I circled
the
robin and
kept the
twenty yard distance.
It
hopped
under a fir tree.
I
stepped
toward
the tree, and
another
robin screeched a warning. It’s mate? I backed
away.
Maybe
these robins would stay. Besides,
I
had a
photo for a robin story. Start writing a story over again, or save
the robin story for next week?
Duh!
I
could save the robin story for
a
week. [See
“Skunk
Cabbage Birthday” March 4, 2018]
But
the
next week a
four hundred pound bear visited. [See
“Sign
of―Bump,
Thump, Clunk―Winter’s
End” March
12, 2018]
Then
we
went to the Flower Show. [See
“Escape to the Flower Show” March 18, 2018]
And
spring arrived.
Spring?
Perfect time for a robin safari.
So
Thursday, the second full day of spring, I bundled for the 34ºF
(1ºC)
sunny weather, and
asked Spence,
“Do you want to walk and
look for robins?”
“Sure.”
He jumped off the sofa, jogged to the coat stand, and slipped into
his boots. On the porch he said, “I’d look for robins by the
garage.”
I’d
looked
there
before but followed
his advice. My
boots thudded
against solid ground―too
hard for worm
snatching―then
squished in grass―perfect
for worm hunting.
“There’s
one.” Spence pointed to the yard behind the garage.
The
robin stared at us.
“I’ll
pretend I’m walking to the wood pile.” I held my camera in front
of my chest. “You walk to the garage. We want the robin to think
we’re not interested in it.”
I
walked to the wood pile,
and Spence opened the basement door of the garage.
The
robin kept its beady eye on my zoom lens.
From
the wood pile, I angled back toward the yard.
The
robin hopped behind hazelnut trunks.
I
stepped.
It
hopped.
Sheesh.
Had the February 21 robin
returned?
After ten minutes of futile inching,
I
changed tactics. “Let’s
search in
the south garden.”
Two
robins flitted in the path above the old pepper patch.
I
inched toward them. One flew to the ash tree at the end of the
garden. The other disappeared in the brush near the blueberry bushes.
I baby stepped
through the brush to
flush the robin out. No
black back. No red breast. No chirps. Determined,
I walked to the ash tree. Spence followed, and the robin flew to the
swale beyond the south
garden.
I
inched after it.
Keeping
its back to me, the robin hopped away.
Maybe
this was the March 4 robin. I sighed. “Why won’t it turn it’s
breast toward me for just a minute?”
Spence
chuckled. “Always leave an escape route.”
I
raised the camera to my eye and waited.
The
robin hopped.
I
took several photos.
The
robin looked at me and turned sideways.
I
took several more photos.
The
robin turned tummy toward me and glared.
I
took photos until a hawk shrieked in the sky.
The
robin zoomed to a hawthorn tree.
Unlike
the February 21 robin, this robin should stay―if
I didn’t harass it any more. I put the cap on the lens and motioned
for Spence to walk with me along the road. “This robin’s had
enough stress for one day.”
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| 3-22-18 South Garden Robin 4 |
