Within the beech hedgerow, for the tiny robin, each tree was a neighbourhood, each branch a familiar friend.
Robin sits atop of the holly tree, pauses a moment, head switching side to side, then peals into song before rising aloft into blue spring skies.
Upon the English grass sits a robin, his red plumage so bright amid verdant strands. I see him as a rain-drop of life, a miracle in feathers, hopping on black legs. He has a joy that comes through the early spring air, a happiness that flies in every direction, all at once, as he searches for worms and beetles upon the soil.
I'm not sure I ever noticed a robin in the springtime before, perhaps because they sit so proudly from the cards at Christmas time. Yet, as I glanced into the garden still laden with fresh dew, there they were, two robins hoping over the rain-washed strands, the garden their breakfast platter. I smirk, for this is their happy time, in warmth and times of plenty, with a chance to play and sing in the bright sunshine.