Fly, Robin, Fly

Mr. Robin is restless. "We have to go now," he tells his wife. "If we don't go now, all the good spots will be taken."

Mrs. Robin rolls her eyes. "Did you see the last weather report? It's too soon; we'll freeze our feathers off."

Mr. Robin won't take no for an answer. Millions of years of routine had made him into a creature of habit. Fly south in November, fly north in March. That's the way it's always been, so that's the way it's gonna be whether Mrs. Robin likes it or not.

So, grumbling, she packs up the Florida mobile home and makes some snacks for the trip.

As they venture north, landmarks are sketchy at best. Mr. Robin can't remember whether that dip in the valley is a river or just another road. Both are covered in white.

"Shouldn't we ask for directions?" Mrs. Robin asks. She points to a shivering pair of blue jays resting in the next tree. "They seem to know where they're going."

Mr. Robin glances at the couple. He doesn't trust them. They're blue jays, after all. Everyone knows blue jays are loud-mouthed, obnoxious know-it-alls. They're tricky, too. He wouldn't be surprised if they pointed toward Albuquerque and said, "Yeah, Ontario's over there, heh, heh."

"I know exactly where we're going," he mumbles, and launches to the skies once again. She follows, her patience wearing thin.

Finally, after several wrong turns, they arrive at their destination. It's bloody awful cold, and there isn't a single patch of bare ground to be seen. The snacks had run out long ago, and Mrs. Robin is good and pissed.

I know this because as I open the back door this morning to let the dog out, I hear robin wives loudly cursing their robin husbands all over the neighbourhood.

Welcome home, robins. Try not to kill your husbands.