Return of the Robins

They have come (as they always do) following the memory of green, of warmth, of the smell of the earth in bloom. They have traveled from far away - from places where Spring does not go. They swarm, flit, dip, dive, raiding the Hawthorn tree of its berries; the ones they miss fall like rain on the rooftop. A whirl of brown and red, of feather and resilience blankets the sky, only permitting filtered sunlight and the promise of new to pass through. They are back. Finally (finally), it is Spring.