July 18, 7:30 a.m.
At first I thought it was Mother Robin, standing upright on the rim of her nest, sun turning orange breast to flame. But then I saw her brooding, covering newborns. The steady flame was Father. He’s usually a hurry of earthworm or housekeeping. This time, sustained company-keeping. As if no hurry or worry in the world.
They were both looking up, in the same direction. What caught their attention? Something in their bower, or something beyond? Whatever it was, they shared a wordless appreciation. I say appreciation because threat would have called for sharp metallic cry and flurry of action.
After a time she resumed her horizontal gaze, yellow beak resting on the rim of the nest. He looked down and regarded the top of her head, so smooth, dark, and dear.
After my kitchen duties, I went outside and sat in my own bower. The air this morning felt like heaven. I kept Robin silence, listening to cry of blue jay, high hoarse broad-winged hawk, and merry young voices next door. As I sat, pink crepe came drifting down, regarded the top of my head, nested in my hair.