a season of robins

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In the demi-light of a lovely, pink dawn, a local boy and girl robin were trotting around in the street today, one following/chasing the other. In the dimness, you could not see their defining, orange underbellies, but their movements, even in silhouette, were pure 'robin.'

Funny how people demand that we take account of their underbellies -- their delights and confusions, accomplishments and failures -- when, from the get-go, it's clear they are robins.

If you point out that they are robins, they may stamp their feet in irritation: "I KNOW that, for Christ's sake! But will you look at my orange breast!?" I guess it is just not their time yet.

What do robins know about an orange breast?
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