I am particularly fond of robins. They seem like a common and uninteresting bird but I love them nonetheless. As a child I remember them being a true first sign of Spring and, in summer, they populated our cherry trees, always defiant, stealing what fruit they could. It was a nest of robins, too, that was among Sophie's last memories, she, grief stricken at the baby birds' flight from their little world below our kitchen window. She stroked out soon after.
Meanwhile, that young lady of the house has been an early riser, shall we say. The nights are short around here. Who knows why the hour between 3 and 4 AM holds appeal for her. Sometimes with seizure, sometimes without. Work carries on, a few extra hours here and there, as do the legal matters which have now shifted into an entirely different direction, forced by new circumstances. I am also having to work on completing an academic paper, started long ago, which has been a cogent reminder as to why I did not, those many, many years ago, pursue a PhD.
In short, I am tired.
And so I was drawn to the window at dusk last night, by the vibrant and exuberant song of a robin, the first time I have heard one after this long and god-forsaken winter. It was so loud, so forceful, I didn't know if the poor thing meant it as a harbinger of Spring or as an attempt to force it into being. At dawn, I heard it again, likely the same bird, just after my daughter's seizure. The song not quite so powerful, not as long, maybe the little bird's energy dampened by the freezing temperature and the snow that accompanied it. I was reminded of the thin line between enthusiasm and desperation.