| CHARLIE THE WIDOWER ROBIN Widower Robin Each spring as certain as tulips, or daffodills high on a hill, Charlie the robin returns, come late March or early April. I gave Charlie his name years ago, for he's my Uncle Charlie , to a tee. My uncle with his black cap and red vest, and a gray, tweed jacket, usually. Uncle's but a little, thin man, who seems less to walk, than to hop, with quick and nervous movements, who never quite, has time to stop. With bold eyes and black rimmed glasses, and with his strong beakish nose, my uncle's a cheerful, bird like man, whistling songs wherever he goes. His namesake, Charlie, lost his mate, one summer, several years back, when I arrived too late to save her from a big, yellow cat's attack. He watched me from a wooden post, as I buried her in the ground. And when I laid atop a heavy stone, I heard him make a faint, sad sound. Some wonder how I know it's Charlie, how I always know it's him I see, well , he has a cowlick of feathers, that tells me at once it is he. Often ,when I work in the garden, Charlie will follow me around, in hopes I'll turn up the earth, so fresh worms can then be found. And he's most always by himself, robins in couples chase him away, and I often see him round the yard, sometimes near where his mate lay. He still sings his robin song, a little cheer up song he sings, but with a hint of sadness, mixed in with the joy that it brings. Oh, there will come a spring one day, when one of us can't greet the other. And should I be the one who's left, I know I'll miss my feathered brother. . copyright 2001 Roland Ricker HOME EMAIL |
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