The Robins
And the Crow
One spring morning, as I walked a soggy, thawing trail in the marsh, I happened upon a flock of robins, newly arrived from the south. They flittered and fluttered amongst the branches while chattering about their trip.
Just when I started to pay attention, a large black crow alighted on an uppermost branch. Apparently she too, was interested in the conversation.
“Did you see the yellow of the daffodils in Tennessee?” remarked the robin with a tail feather askew.
“Why, yes — yes, I did. Some were pale like fresh churned butter. Some had a salmon colored, ruffled center. My favorites though, were the miniatures, clustered as tight and plentiful as vacuum packed gnocchi,” replied a red-breast with an errant white feather in the middle. (Reader — nevermind how a robin would know about gnocchi!)
“Ahh, yes. I too liked the miniatures, but the tulips — they are my favorites. All colors from deep, deep purple to bright orange, yellow and red. The whites would elegantly adorn the arm of any bride…..” tail feather askew said.
I heard crow sigh above me. I sighed, too. We could read each other’s thoughts.
Crow’s mind was mulling the phrase:
As the crow flies.
She thought, “It’s so true. I am naturally expedient going from point A to point B. I never take time to notice the flowers like the robins do.”
I thought, “Me, too crow. Sometimes when I write, I forget to leave a trail for my reader’s mind to follow. I shall pay greater attention to the robins. They have much to offer.”
A large gust of wind sent the robins deeper into the forest. Crow flew off as well. And I — I walked on.
As I walked I reflected upon the lesson the robins taught — not through teaching, but through simple conversation.
Michael Ramsburg — I miss your stories.
