Tuesday, May 4, 2021

once for all

"Have you seen the robin eggs yet?" my granddaughter asks. "No," I say, leaping from the lawn chair in anticipation.  Away we dash,  around the corner of the house and up the stairs to the deck. Bumping into each other, clutching arms, and holding our breath, we tip toe towards the far corner. 

A robin has faithfully nested year after year in our yard and this trek to the deck has become a yearly pilgrimage.  We have knelt, bowing slowly, our foreheads touching the dry dusty boards, eyes zooming in and out of focus, the nest a few inches below. 

This year my granddaughter became the guide (and the tech support). She asked for my phone and placed it over the space between the boards, screen side up and there were the eggs! Three dusky green eggs glowing in the golden grass of the nest. No bending or bowing. She even snapped a picture for posterity, suggesting this new view would be less stressful for the mother robin, a sort of once for all and all for once.

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