Spring Migration

“Look at the robin,” Leah said, gazing out the kitchen window into the back yard. Trevor came and stood next to her, her hands still plunged into the tepid dishwater. She pointed and sudsy water spilled down to her elbow. “Right there, by the maple.”

The yard was still snowy. February had been a bit warmer, but March had brought the frigid temperatures and snow back. When Trevor had shoveled the walk, he could see the low crust where everything had melted down now piling up again.

“A bit early, I think,” he said, looking at the red-breasted bird. The branch it perched on dipped lower under the weight of both the robin and the fresh snow. Leah nodded, turning the hot water tap on to warm the sink. 

“I wonder where they’ve been.”

“South,” she replied, scrubbing at the pot in the sink that had boiled the pasta they had for last night’s dinner. There was one partial linguini noodle that, like the clinging snow, held tight to the bottom. “I think they fly to Florida.” 

“I wish we could fly to Florida.”

“Start flapping your arms,” Leah said with a smile that Trevor didn’t notice. “That’s how they do it.”

Trevor folded his arms, looking out at the small bird. It seemed to be looking back at him, cocking its head side to side as if considering. He doubted the bird was smart enough to realize it was looking at a person. He’d read somewhere their brains were the size of a shelled peanut.

“You know what I’ve always wondered? I wonder if we’ve seen this robin before.”

“I don’t know,” she said, setting the pot in the drying rack, finally freed of its linguini strip. “Maybe.”

“It’s supposed to be some sort of homing instinct, migration. I wonder if they don’t just blindly follow the warmth.” 

Leah shrugged. 

“I mean, even day to day, is that the same robin we saw yesterday? Last week? There are so many of them and they all look practically identical.”

“I wouldn’t know, Trev. It’s not really the kind of thing that I spend a lot of time on.”

“Me either, but I’ve always wondered. You can’t really tell by looking. But, like, do they remember that we have a bird feeder here on their way back north? And at the other end, are they heading back to Doris Smith’s house, the one with the nice bird bath to splash around in?”

“You’re crazy,” Leah said, laughing. “Who thinks of these things?”

“I don’t know. I just wonder. Like my grandparents were snowbirds, right? They’d fly down to Tallahassee every winter because Gramp had a bad back and couldn’t shovel any more and Gram hated being in a car in the snow.” He watched the robin on the branch, now with small flakes of snow dotting the crown of its head. “They had a house there, and here. They always went to the same place; they’d never just blindly go where it’s warm and do the best they can. I’ve always been curious if robins do the same kind of thing.”

Trevor had a mental image of robins, like his grandparents, arriving in Florida for the winter and back in Brownsville for the summer, waving at each other over hedges. His  grandparents unpacking suitcases from the trunks of old Cadillacs or Buicks, the birds picking winter debris out of their nests, meeting the same other birds at the feeders and baths. Chirping how was your winter, that kind of thing. The same frustrations coming north, thinking spring had sprung only to find snow. Gramp calling the neighbors, asking if they knew a kid who wanted to make ten bucks shoveling his driveway for him, while the robin, sitting in sight of the feeder, was staring at the people, waiting for suet and seed. 

Leah, finished with the dishes, pulled the plug and the drain began the familiar sucking sound. She dried her hands on a dishtowel hanging off one of the cupboard handles. 

“Speaking of which, did you buy the feeder things? The suet pucks?”

“I did. We wouldn’t want Mr. and Mrs. Johnson to go hungry.” She cocked an eyebrow at him. “If they’re going to be here every year they should at least have names,” he added with a smile.

“You’re crazy.”

“Maybe,” he replied thoughtfully. “But crazy or not, I should get the feeder filled up.”

“Thank you. Maybe shovel just the front step, too. Kids’ll be home soon.”

“Yes indeedy,” Trevor said. He leaned over and kissed Leah. He waved out the window. “Coming, Mr. Johnson!”

Trevor left the kitchen and headed to the back door, sliding his boots on. Leah could hear him shrugging into his parka. He had put it away near the end of February, before the teeth of winter returned to their throats. Now that the weather had turned, he was back to the heaviest coat he owned.

She looked out the window at the robin, wondering idly if maybe Trevor was right. What if that was the same robin she’d seen hopping around on the lawn in the first week or so of October? Had it really gone to the same address and back? 

The robin stared back at her for a moment. As if finishing a thought, it shrugged, and flew away in a flap of wings. A blizzard of March snow plummeted from the branch where it had been sitting.