EARLY ONE MORNING

EARLY ONE MORNING

Just as the sun was rising, Mr. Robin stirred. He sensed the dense dark of night, fading into shades and shapes of misty grey. It was the dead of winter, and normally the time when he and his fellows would fly south to warmer climes; but this year the others had left without him. His faithful companion of many years had perished in the early spring. For many years they had roosted together in the same woods and mated and hatched lots of little chicks, but this year was different.

That spring was colder than usual, so they were pleased and surprised to discover an old woodpecker’s nest half way up a tree trunk; the base of the tree was sprinkled with thousands of tiny wood chips, which the woodpeckers had scattered when making their own nest. The resultant hole was tiny and deep down in the centre of the trunk. After making sure it was abandoned they moved in and set up home, building a new nest from the little wood chips that the previous owners had scattered about. They built a wonderfully warm nest and soon felt secure enough to lay a clutch of eggs, which quickly hatched into a nest-full of hungry, noisy little chicks.

However, Mr. Robin was kept very busy foraging for enough food to keep the youngsters quiet, but the noise they made had attracted the attentions of a hungry rat. He scurried up the tree and squeezed his head through the hole; the rat knew if he could get his head through this hole, the rest of his body could also wriggle through.

Unfortunately, Robin’s mate was feeding her fledglings at the time and was quickly dispatched by the rat, who then devoured her little chicks, one by one.

So, this year, without his mate, Robin was loathed to join the yearly migration, and sadly watched as flocks of swallows and songbirds headed off, for Africa. They left at dusk, aiming to fly at night to avoid predators, and then rest during the day; they could easily find their way to their winter home because special cells in their retinas gave them a sense of the earth’s magnetic flux. Robin himself could also detect these pulsing eddy currents, as they flowed, like waves caressing the oceans.

Somehow he sensed this year was different; he knew the cycles of the seasons, and each year was just another phase in his life, which he had learned to relate to.

But this year he had watched the rooks building their winter nests low down in the trees, he knew that this was a bad sign. Whereas, normally in a good year they would build high up in the treetops, for rooks knew if the next winter would be windy, and they would sacrifice their vantage spots high up, for the shelter of lower branches. Robin watched all this in apprehension, because he could see that this year their nests were low; very low.

But now the dark horizon had softened with the long pale glimmer of yet another day. A new start to another cycle of another day and a fresh opportunity to join in the gathering dawn chorus, all around him. Up and down the woods the trees echoed with the songs of thrushes and the whistle of blackbirds, but all paled against the melody of a robin. For such a small creature his song was strong and vibrant and at times he would sing for hours, draining all his strength. Over the years, instinct and habit had trained him to welcome the great golden ball that lit up the sky. He knew that it would take away the terrors of the night, and again fill his world with light and heat and the joy of life itself.

But today was different; it had rained most of the night and a fierce gale had arisen. He had roosted in his favourite spot; high up on a simple twig to foil the squirrels: and always facing east to greet the new cycle of a new day. The wind was dropping as gentle white flakes of snow began to fall. Overnight the rain had iced up his feathers in the wind chill, but he knew that the great white ball would soon thaw him out as it slowly rose above the horizon. The trouble was, now that the wind had dropped, the flakes of snow were settling on top of his frozen feathers. Now he desperately wanted to greet the great orange ball that would grow bigger and brighter to warm up his freezing body, which was getting colder by the minute.

Yet, today the cycle seemed different; a layer of frost had crusted his eyelids, making it difficult for him to see properly. He could also sense his little legs were iced solid onto the tiny branch, for when he tried to flap his wings nothing happened. Now his tiny heart beat even faster, but the layer of ice on his wings had been covered with a delicate blanket of snow, and he now knew that he was stuck to the twig on which he had roosted. His vain struggles to move resulted in what he thought was the twig snapping, but he soon realized it was his leg and not the branch that had broken.

But he still had hope, for the great golden ball was rising fast, and he could see through his glazed eyes that it was getting brighter by the minute; so he sang along with the rest to welcome this great Sun-God that gave all things life. He gave thanks in his song for another day, another start, another chance.

There was little heat in the sun that morning and the only thing that seemed to thaw out was his little red bib, which shone iridescently, in tune with the changing light of the great Sun-God. He was now frozen solid, half blind, and balancing on a broken leg; he was also hungry and tired: but nothing halted his unrelenting song of praise and hope.

He loved his little life, and the least he could do was to offer thanks to the great Sun-God, which he sensed gave life to all things. But he also sensed that day, that this cycle was different; even though the wind was blowing he seemed to be running out of breath. He continued with his song, for what else could he do, except feel sorry for himself, and what was the point of that; it was not in his nature to waste time. He knew that these cycles constantly changed, sometimes for the better; but often for the worst, so he accepted that this was just the way of the world, and that of the great Sun-God, which governed all life.

So he sang his heart out, just as he had for every day of every year of his little life. He sang along with the rest, even though he was now without his mate; but he sensed that in the end, this happened to all Life. He realized this when scavenging for grubs and insects; his ears could detect the motion of worms, buried deep in the earth, but sometimes digging among the leaves he would find a spider which would make no effort to escape. These ones tasted different; they tasted bad, and he sensed they had entered another phase of the cycle; and that, sooner or later, he too would reach that same state. He knew there were good phases and bad phases, and you never knew what was coming next.

Robin now realized that nothing in the woods ever really lasted. Only the constant cycle of the great Sun-God, that traveled slowly across the sky day after day, could be relied upon to stay consistent. That was the only thing he could depend on with certainty, and it proved to him that something greater existed in life for it let him realize he was still alive; and that was why he loved it so much. He now knew this was indeed a strange and different day; a strange cycle, which previously he had never experienced. Because the crusting of ice on his broken foot still remained firm, he began to realize that he would never again sail through the skies and soar with the winds; nevermore would his song be spread over hills and dales. Now, he sensed, he must say goodbye to the woods where he had lived for over a dozen seasons.

Some were good, some were bad; but each was different. Some had given great pleasure and some great pain, but that was the way of things. But every new day offered the chance of a fresh start, and the opportunity for change; to even alter slightly the phase he was currently going through, because he also had the gift of choice; free will. Sometimes, like now, he desperately wanted to change things, but was helpless to do so; but most of the time he was content and happy: just to be alive.

Even in the fresh morning breeze, his little lungs were gasping for more air, and he now heard his song slowly changing. He sensed it slowing down. This normally happened when the great golden ball had crossed right over the sky, like it did every day of every season, leaving the woods shadowy and restless. That was when he would sing his lullaby to the great Sun-God; a slower, quieter, more graceful tune of thanks, for yet another day in the great cycle. Now he was puzzled as to why he was singing his lullaby now, for the great golden ball was still rising.

The snow had stopped falling and the wind had ceased and now he felt the heat of the sun beginning to reach him; but he also felt a strange peace settle over him and decided that this kind of thing must happen to all creatures eventually, so did not fight it. He realized that everything had a certain time to exist and an even more certain time to leave, and sensed this might be his time to go into another unknown cycle.

Still, he felt he must utter a final song, so filled his tiny lungs for one final tune of thanks; his little beak moved, but no sound came forth; this cycle really was different, very different: so he slowly shut his eyes, realizing there would be no more seasons for him in the woods, and settled down to await the next cycle, which he felt was very close. But now felt tired; very tired. He was cold and in pain and alone, but still grateful; for he could still see the bright light of the Sun-God shining through his crusted eye-lids, and just before he went to sleep he knew he would never be completely alone, for something else would always exist, and this gave him peace and comfort. He settled down ready to sleep, knowing it would be a long sleep; but, as he fell asleep, he gave silent thanks to the bright light in his eyes: this beautiful light which had given him so much hope and so much life and so much love.

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