The Morning Torch

Spring - Week 12 - On Feathered Timekeepers and Spring's Persistent Promise

In Her Nature is a year long exploration into the healing power of the natural world. Season by season, setting out to awaken the spirit, and rekindle joy. The weekly journal of a neighborhood, its plants and birds and creatures — and how they are helping repair a heart and rebirth a soul.

[Photo by Trac Vu on Unsplash]

Before the sun crests the horizon, before the world stirs from slumber, there is the robin. He calls a persistent, clear declaration that darkness must give way, his song lighting the morning torch. With the changing season, this daybreak herald has returned, and in less than a week, I find myself transformed. I now lie awake eagerly awaiting that first melodic trill that seems to draw dawn itself into being.

Winter mornings arrived in silence. The world revealed itself gradually, reluctantly, in shades of blue and gray. But spring announces itself. It has a voice.

I find myself waking earlier these days, not by intention but by invitation. The robin calls and something ancient in me responds. My eyes open to a room still wrapped in shadow, but my ears are filled with promise, and now each morning a smile spills from the corners of my mouth.

From my window, I can see the ash tree's tender new buds catching the first blush of daylight. They seem to quiver with the robin's song, as if the notes themselves are rippling through the branches. The dew-damp grass glistens, each blade holding a fragment of sky.

Time feels different in these moments. Not measured in minutes but in gentle transitions - darkness to light, silence to symphony, sleep to wakefulness. The robin orchestrates it all from the highest branch, conducting the day into existence note by note.

I wonder if the flowers hear it too. If the daffodils and crocuses rise and unfurl their petals in response to that persistent song. If the whole world, like me, is simply following the robin's lead into spring.

As I sip my coffee watching at the window, while the blue jays swoop and scold, and the squirrels run along the tree boughs, I feel a profound gratitude for this natural alarm clock. For the privilege of witnessing each day sparked to life by a small red-breasted bird who sings because it must, because morning has arrived, because spring is here, and there is no containing such joy in all of us.

The vernal equinox arrived last week, that perfect balance point where day and night stand equal before light begins its seasonal reign. It's as if nature flipped some primordial switch, and suddenly the robins appeared, returning from their winter retreat. Some had remained, braving Colorado's frost-laden months as silent witnesses to winter's passage, but many now return from southern sanctuaries. Drawn northward by the tilting earth. They arrive with impeccable timing, cosmic travelers following starlit routes their ancestors mapped generations before them, their wings carrying spring itself back to our doorstep.

What seems like magic when these birds materializing overnight is actually an intricate dance of instinct, celestial timing, and biological imperative. The males arrive first, staking territory through song before the females follow. Their sudden chorus feels like a blessing, a continuation of cycles that long predate our brief human attention.

I marvel at how they navigate back to the same area year after year, their internal compass guided by the earth's magnetic field and the changing light patterns that signal home. After months of absence, their return transforms our landscape from dormant possibility into vibrant certainty - spring isn't merely coming; it has already arrived on crimson wings and jubilant song.

“Instructions for living a life. Pay attention. Be astonished. Tell about it.” ― Mary Oliver

On my morning walks with the dog, our path often cuts through the robins' careful routines. Startled from their earthworm hunts, they protest our intrusion with sharp, staccato calls, a comical scolding that seems disproportionate to our offense. They hop away in exaggerated bounds, then pause to fix us with sidelong glances of indignation.

There's something delightfully theatrical about their performance. Heads cocked, tail feathers flicking in agitation, their entire bodies seeming to twitch with disapproval. I find myself smiling at these small guardians of the morning, so earnest in their territorial displays. They remind me that we are merely visitors in their world, temporary disruptors of the serious business of spring. And yet, the moment we turn the corner, they've already forgotten us. Their attention recaptured by the earth's offerings, their melodramas dissolved into the greater symphony of daybreak.

---

Every spring when the robins return, I'm visited by memories as vivid as the birds themselves. A few years ago, a pair chose the eaves by my front door to build their nest. A gesture of trust that felt like a sacred responsibility. Four speckled eggs appeared, then four gaping beaks, their constant hunger a metronome marking spring's passage. I became their unlikely guardian, watching over them with an intensity that surprised even me. Mama bear instincts do run deep!

Nature, though, follows its own rules. A determined bull snake discovered the nest, and despite my twice removing it with trembling hands, it returned when my vigilance faltered. One Sunday morning, a single chick was taken. The parents' distress calls still echo in my memory. The remaining chicks fledged early, necessity forcing them into flight before their time.

Now, each spring, I watch with wonder as robins return to inspect my doorway. Are they the parents coming to mourn and remember? Or perhaps the surviving chicks, drawn back to their first home? Sometimes, when a robin pauses in my yard and tilts its head to study me, I imagine I see recognition, a shared history, a wordless acknowledgment of how deeply our lives intersected. I'll never know for certain, but in that gaze lies a reminder that we all participate in spring's eternal cycle of loss and renewal, of endings and beginnings.

The folklore of my British childhood held that robins were not merely birds but bearers of messages from the departed. "When a robin appears," my Mum would say, "someone you once loved is close by." I've found myself watching for them more intently as tomorrow's anniversary of my father's passing approaches. There's something about their fearless presence, the way they'll land just feet away, their curious glances that linger a moment too long to be mere bird behavior - that feels like recognition across impossible boundaries. Their spring songs reach me in the raw moments when grief resurfaces, offering not answers but companionship, a reminder that absence and presence can sometimes occupy the same space.

Perhaps this is why we humans have always found meaning in these spring messengers. The robin doesn't know it carries such weight of symbolism, such hope within its small frame. It simply follows the ancient pull of seasons, the instinctual return to familiar places. Yet in that reliable presence, that persistence against winter's retreat, I find something profoundly comforting.

As dawn breaks tomorrow, I will listen for the robin's song with new attention. In its cadence, I might hear echoes of my father's voice; in its watchful presence, feel his continued embrace. The robin teaches us that absence is not always permanent, that return is possible, that life continues its cycle regardless of loss.

Spring itself is proof that endings are never truly final, that what appears dormant is merely gathering strength for rebirth. And so I welcome these red-breasted harbingers of hope, these small ambassadors between worlds, as they light the morning torch and remind me that love, like spring, finds ways to return to us again and again.

---

Your Weekly Nature Rx:

PRESCRIPTION FOR: Dawn Chorus Meditation

DOSE: Daily morning moments, preferably within the first hour of daylight

DIRECTIONS:

• Rise with (or before) the sun to experience the full progression of morning birdsong

• Find a comfortable observation spot near windows overlooking trees or gardens

• Create a morning ritual that includes listening attentively to the first robin's call

• Notice how different birds join the symphony in predictable sequences

• Allow yourself to connect personally with specific birds you see repeatedly

REFILLS: Unlimited through spring, with seasonal variations

SIDE EFFECTS MAY INCLUDE: Shifted sleep schedules, profound moments of inter-species connection, unexpected emotional responses to bird behaviors, heightened awareness of seasonal transitions, spontaneous smiles at dawn, and a deepened sense of participation in spring's ancient rhythms.

SPECIAL INSTRUCTIONS: The birds that frequent our immediate surroundings carry messages beyond their biological imperatives. By developing relationships with individual robins and other spring heralds, we open ourselves to wisdom that transcends human understanding. Pay special attention to birds that seem to notice you in return - these moments of mutual recognition across species boundaries often arrive precisely when we need them most.

—> What moments of natural wonder caught your attention this week? Please share your stories and photos in the comments below. Let's experience nature's gifts together.

As always, thank you so much for reading and supporting me.

Love,

Jane