First Robin
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I took this picture last spring, the day after this fellow fledged from a nest in our neighbour's trough. Robins always provoke strong feelings in me, from when I was a boy in Toronto. The first robin. Robin red breast. Such a powerful reminder of the cycles that we bury in our urban lives. This April morning in Edmonton two robins appeared on our front yard and I could not help wondering if it was that youngster now grown who had returned. We have such dire warnings these days of our alienation, of our destruction and of our tenuous connection to the natural world. But still the robins return, and bring hope. Our mixed feelings are so well expressed in a poem by Emily Dickinson:
I dreaded that first Robin, so,
But He is mastered, now,
I'm some accustomed to Him grown,
He hurts a little, though
I thought if I could only live
Till that first Shout got by
Not all Pianos in the Woods
Had power to mangle me
I dreaded that first Robin, so,
But He is mastered, now,
I'm some accustomed to Him grown,
He hurts a little, though
I thought if I could only live
Till that first Shout got by
Not all Pianos in the Woods
Had power to mangle me
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The Redbreast, sacred to the household gods, Wisely regardful of the embroiling sky, In joyless fields and thorny thickets leaves His shivering mates, and pays to trusted Man His annual visit. - James Thomson
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