Common Birds 70 - American Robin

Wednesday, April 3

It’s five-thirty in the morning. I’m in bed. Amelia’s trying to sleep. I’m also trying to sleep, but it's five-thirty, and five-thirty is when Buckets, our tuxedo cat, comes to stand on my face and loudly plead for fish.

Despite the meowing, despite my bleariness, despite actively trying to fall back asleep, despite the glass of the old windows, the brick layers of the former mill building, the steel and concrete of the city, the absence of trees and grass, I hear an American robin singing in the light which is just beginning to build on the horizon. Clear as the church bells which ring on Sunday mornings, I hear a robin sing. Later, I will know that this song blesses the lack of grass, the dearth of trees, it blesses the concrete and steel, the brick and glass, my needy cat and my angry cat, my sleepy wife, our sleeping son, and me. 

Later. Now, I wish Buckets could give me just another half hour.