American Robin: An Ogemaw County Year

I spotted my first robin of spring today. There it is, a bright flash of rust against the gray, its feathers puffed up as it works among the serviceberry shrubs. The shrubs, once heavy with berries, were picked clean long ago. Now, their branches are studded with tiny, tight buds—just the earliest promise of blooms.

The robin is busy, flipping damp, matted leaves that winter plastered to the ground. Those leaves, still wet and dark from the snowmelt, are sure to harbor tiny lives—grubs, beetles, and other hidden treasures. With every toss of its beak, I imagine it striking gold.

American robins are some of the earliest migratory birds to return in spring, often showing up while the world still feels locked in winter’s grip. They don’t actually mind the cold; it’s the availability of food that drives their migration. Many robins head south to follow fruiting trees and berry bushes, but not all go far—some stick around in sheltered woods or wetlands, surviving on berries and fruits when the ground is too hard for worms.

This one might have traveled hundreds of miles, riding the invisible rivers of wind that guide so many birds. Male robins often return first, eager to claim the best territories. They'll sing their rolling, cheerful songs to stake out their space—“Cheerily, cheer up, cheer up, cheerily!”—a sound as much a sign of spring as the first crocus or the softening of the earth.

The robin moves to a fresh patch of flattened leaves, poking and prodding, its bright eye sharp. The temperatures are still in the 30s, and as if on cue, snow begins to fall again. Fat, lazy flakes drift down, settling on the robin’s back and on the dark, wet ground. The bird shakes them off and keeps working, undeterred.

It’s hard not to admire its persistence. Soon, when the ground fully thaws, it’ll tug earthworms from the soil with that unmistakable head-tilting stance. Before long, it will be building a nest—mud-lined and sturdy—maybe tucked into the crook of a pine or balanced on a porch beam. The female will lay her sky-blue eggs, and if all goes well, I might see fledglings testing their wings by early summer.

For now, though, it is just this robin and me, standing in the quiet, a promise of spring on the wing while winter lets go one flake at a time.