When I was growing up in PA, we would always wait for the robins to come back. A red-breasted robin was among the first signs of spring, along with the crocuses and irises poking up through the snow. (Snow still being present was of course no indication that winter wasn’t going anywhere for a while.)

These signs of spring were a sure sign that Punxsutawney Phil had been right all along, spring would come six weeks early.

Usually it was just one lone robin- there he was hopping gingerly along the frozen ground. His red breast showing brightly against the dead earth, cocking his head, looking at you with his little beady eye as if to say, “If I leave right now, it will be winter forever! I am the bringer of spring! I and I ALONE!” (He gave no account to the irises and the crocuses.)

That lone robin was the harbinger of hope-the feathered optimism for better days, a mighty symbol of sunshine, shorts, pool parties and popsicles. That robin, after five long months of snow on the ground, that robin made everyone smile, everyone. (Even if he was a little cocky about his role in the scheme of things.)

Today I saw a flock of robins. Wow! I didn’t know they came in flocks! (It was only ever that first one who got noticed, after him they were old news.) I was amazed, I stood and watched them for a while. They were everywhere, swooping and resettling. I had to move for fear of droppings.

Being pooped on by the harbinger of hope would be a bad thing.