The Messenger

     A robin stopped in my yard today and pulled a worm from the ground.  First, he hopped across the warming earth, his little head cocked to the side as he listened for the silent wrigglings emanating from his meal hidden beneath the soil. With a quick thrust and a jerk, he plucked the plump morsel of struggling, pink flesh from it's burrow and gobbled it down. He seemed pleased with his dinner as he puffed his little red breast and flew to rest on a pyracantha branch.
     It was with more than just passing interest that I watched the robin. It was with an eager anticipation, a longing for the hint of spring that he unknowingly carried with him.  The small brown bird was a harbinger of hope for the warmer, longer summer days that were hiding in the future. He carried a vision of spring flowers painting the dull, sleeping earth with brilliant purples and blues and yellows and pinks. He hinted at the appearance of fat buds that would soon be bursting forth on naked trees. The quietness of winter seemed to be hovering on a delicate edge, as the chirps and twitters of the gradually returning birds sounded the alarm of awakening spring.
     Nature had teased us with a string of moderate days, with thermometers striking marks well into the seventies,  and I had reveled at running barefoot through the yard on a Saturday morning in February. Now, I wanted more. I wanted evenings that lingered long with light. I wanted trees to burst forth with tender green leaves. I wanted every day to be a barefoot morning, warm enough to rush outside without thought for sweaters or shoes or scarves.
       The arrival of the robin was a reminder that the cycle of life will continue-- seasons will continue to change, new growth will appear on barren branches, color will return to a pallid earth,  and the rhythm of the world will beat on. I thanked the little bird for the message he brought, and with a new spring in my step, I began another February morning.