A message from the first robin of springtime

Oh, hello. I didn’t see you there. I was just busy enjoying a meal of seeds, fruits and/or small invertebrates. That can wait, though. Please, allow me to introduce myself.

That’s right, it’s me!—the first robin of springtime.

Huzzah!

Now, of course, it’s not quite springtime yet—the season doesn’t officially change over for nearly three more weeks, as you and I both know—but I think we can agree that it feels imminent today. The bitter chill of February has ebbed in this shared habitat of ours, and we’ve been treated to a nice stretch of sunny, pleasant and warm days.

Spring may not be here, but it’s coming.

And here I am!

I’m sure you’re thrilled to see me; I know I would be. (I’m quite impressive, if I do say so myself.) The first robin of springtime! A thing like that.

Of course, you may not realize this, but the notion of a “first robin of springtime” is rooted in misconception.

You see, most of us are around all winter.

Sure, our behavior changes—in the warmer months, we’re more territorial, more likely to be seen hunting for high-protein foods a we prepare to reproduce. That’s when you’ll see us hopping around your lawn—we’re looking for worms and grubs and such. But in the wintertime, we don’t just decamp to South America like some globe-trotting bobolink or chimney swift. We’re here, but we’re prone to spend our time foraging in mixed flocks with other species of birds then, and you’re just less likely to notice us. When spring returns, we break off once again, and—well, I could go on and on, but you get the idea.

Here I am, and here you are.

My point is, your perception of me as a harbinger of springtime is just that—a perception. Yes, I am the first robin you saw. When you stepped out of your house this afternoon to take advantage of the warm weather and go for a run—in shorts! What a treat, you thought to yourself!—you laid eyes on me and were practically giddy. You perceived me as the first robin of the season, and joyfully declared me to be just that.

Of course, I’m not, and I could use your same logic to declare your blindingly-pale thighs as the first marshmallows of the season. But I won’t.

I don’t think about you at all.

Oh, that sounded harsh, didn’t it?

Well, true though it may be, I’m a magnanimous bird, and I offer you my sincere apologies. I know you mean well, and your enthusiasm for the season’s turn *is* infectious. You see me as something of an informal spokesbird for the vernal vibe shift, and though that’s awfully presumptuous of you, I suppose I can humor you, even if it’s simply because of my own deep fondness for the season.

Spring is great!

For me, as we’ve already discussed, spring means an opportunity to feed on fresh worms, fatten up and reproduce. Nothing not to like there.

For you, though? Oh, my new mammalian friend, there’s so much more in store.

First of all, there’s the warmer days—that benefits both you and I. We can’t spent another month inside watching Love Is Blind, or we’ll lose our minds. It’s a great time to get out and pretend that 62 degrees is t-shirt weather.

Next, there’s March Madness. Like spring, it doesn’t start for a few more weeks, but as soon as March hits the conversation immediately shifts to brackets—both the real one in the NCAA tournaments and the omnipresent parodies. Me and the other birds, we got a bracket going on right now, actually. We’re trying to pick the outdoor cat we hate the most. I’ve got Simba next door as a 1-seed, but don’t forget about Tumbles down the block.

My friend Hector forget about Tumbles last year, and we all know how that worked out for him.

[taps wing to breast, kisses wingtip and points it to the sky] miss you, Hec.

Anyways, where was I? Oh, right. Spring activities. Well, there’s Easter in a month or so, and that means Easter egg hunts. I love those. Your kids are terrible hunters. Seriously, they’d never survive a day in the wild. Every year, I’m seeing overlooked eggs left and right. I don’t have much use for them, but it makes the crows so happy when they find them. They like to pretend they’re goth and brooding and whatnot, but deep down, those crazy corvids love themselves a trinket.

Baseball should be starting any day now, and—

What’s that? Really? Still locked out? Dang. Well, that’s dumb, but I have to confess—I’ve never cared that much for baseball myself.

Ever since that Randy Johnson incident in spring training, it’s just felt off to me.

The Oscars are fast approaching, that’s always fun. I never see many of the films, though. I got burned by Birdman a few years ago. Too much man, not nearly enough bird, if you ask me. Now, The Birds (1963)? That was a film.

Anyways, they’re both better than Green Book.

Longer days are coming, the time change is going to make evenings outdoors possible again, flowers will bloom, warm breezes will replace winter bluster—yes, there’s simply nothing not to like about springtime. It’s almost here, and I’m happy to be the first one to remind you of that.

Oh, there’s just one more thing, though.

Take a deep breath. Take in that lovely spring air.

You feel that?

That little tickle in your nose just now? That slight but perceptible burning in your eyes? That cottony-fuzz feeling fast filling your sinuses? That frog taking up immovable residence at the back of your throat?

You fool.

I was just stalling to keep you outside long enough for the reality of seasonal allergies to set in, and now you’re feeling it full-fury. I see you looking around for help, but it’s no use—the crows have already made off with your Zyrtec.

They love the shiny foil packaging, you see.

Feel it take over; there’s nothing you can do now. You might as well just lie down here on the sidewalk and surrender to it.

[hops over, leans in as you struggle to breathe, looks you straight in the eyes]

I’m not a robin. I’m an Eastern Towhee, you son of a bitch. Read a damned field guide next time.

—Scott Hines (@actioncookbook)