ROBIN PLUS WORM EQUALS LINK IN FOOD CHAIN

A robin alighted on the trellised archway, a fat, neatly folded worm in its beak. I sat post-oak-stump still to watch what might be in the offing.

"Isn't it too early to have to feed robinettes?" something in me questioned. I hadn't even found a laid-too-soon robin's egg anywhere in my yard, which I nearly always do before hatching and feeding time. Still there was the, what I assumed to be, parent robin with offspring food in its beak. It just sat there, cocking its head this way and that. When it did so I tried to follow its line of vision to see what had caught its eye.

The white cat, yellow tail erect, was passing by, but the robin had sense enough not to start fussing vocally lest it loose that fat worm which must be getting weary of being on death row. Anyway, this was not necessary. A resident mockingbird takes care of that cat's out-in-the-open rambling. I do believe that mockingbird has plucked fur from that cat's back. I've never seen such bird bravery.

But, back to the robin and its worm. After the stormy passage of the cat, the robin cocked its head again, sharply, looking one-eyed, almost straight down. There, below, was a pink peony in full bloom around which a butterfly was fluttering. The robin twitched, took two or three short running steps on the trellis and made a three hundred sixty degree turn. It looked at the butterfly with the other eye. Double checking. Ah, decisions, decisions. Was the robin trying to judge which would make the best meal? The worm or the butterfly? Meanwhile the folded worm had wriggled partially loose and an inch or more of him hung down, twisting in the wind.

The butterfly fluttered away. The robin straightened his head, made some kind of masterful engineering twist of its head and beak and there was that worm neatly folded back up again.

The robin continued to sit there an so did I, still stump still. Only my eyes moved. I wondered if the robin's kids, if any, were getting hungry.

Then, with no fanfare at all, such as revving up wings or standing on tiptoe (wouldn't that stance be interesting?), the robin took off, baggage still in beak, to the newly constructed, lattice-sided-and-roofed garden seat at the far end of the walk.

I thought of trying to inch my way out so as to better see the ending of the story, but good sense told me my bulk was so much more than that of the harassed cat I wouldn't be able to get close. Instead, I inched myself into the house to get my binoculars. Perhaps I was about to discover where a robin's nest was, full of cavernous-mouthed babies.

Seated on the porch steps I focused the binoculars on the robin. I saw that it was looking, quizzically, at my tiny garden in front of the garden seat.

Few live beings pass by my garden the yellow-tailed, white cat, the be-collared gray tabby, the big, black, handsome Labrador, and Danielle, the neighborhood beauty, taking a short cut home from some activity. None of these are critical of my garden. Yet I feel I need to get this group together and explain why the onions are too close together. I'd say, "I know the onions are too close together, but you see I plan to eat every other one, soon now. And about the five, three-foot rows of black-seeded Simpson, "I know this lettuce should be thinned. I'll get around to that, soon now."

The robin, cocking his head so as to better see the too-thick lettuce and onions, or so it seemed, began a little prancing step. Its feathers fluffed out enormously. Why, I thought, of all things, that bird is laughing at my garden. It seemed so amused it got choked on the worm. If the worm hadn't been on death row for so long it might have won the battle, but the last thing I saw of it was a feeble little twisting of its head or tail (I never could tell the difference), as if waving goodbye to the good soil below.

For a moment I was displeased with that robin, laughing at my garden and depriving its young'uns, if there be any, of food. Then better sense prevailed. That robin had learned the joy of anticipation. All the time it meant to eat that worm. Too early for nestlings. It was just prolonging the pleasure. I had to admire that trait. As for the underdog worm ah well, the food chain nothing must disturb too dramatically the food chain. And maybe the robin wasn't laughing after all. It was just having a hard time getting that long worm down its short throat.

Binoculars still in hand, I went out to pull up several every-other onions. Brought them in, washed them and stood them upright in a clear glass of water where I could, for several days, anticipate the pleasure of them, in my salads, in my bean soup, or just encased in a roll-up of fresh bread.

REJOICE!