By Jack Carney
The winds blew fiercely across
the lake for three days without
letup – no weathervane needed
to know they were nor’easters.
The trees lakeside told me,
whipped about, bowing and scraping to the
southwest, oranges and reds stripped away.
Shimmer (our cat) and I tracked the
three-day blow, on the lookout
for the robin fledgling that had spent
much of the month foraging for worms
and grubs in our south field, born late and
left to fend for itself. Unusual, as was the
sudden onset of winter’s first days.
When the weather cleared, the bare trees
signaled “no shelter.” No sign of our robin
and we accepted it was gone. We would await
Spring, when the robins would return to
nest in our eaves or in the nearby trees,
summoned by green buddings.
Pure chance, the evening of our first
snowfall, we heard a robin’s song
from the top-most branches of a
tall tree in the woodlot to the north, a final
and reassuring “adieu”, from the fledgling.
Or so I’d like to believe, ever hopeful in a
land that often warrants little.
Photo at top: Leaves on a forest floor. Wikimedia Commons photo.