A part of me always wanted to be named Autumn. There's something so cozy and homey about the events and weather of those months. "Elizabeth" is okay, but it summons up images of a white-haired lady corseted up so tight that she has a pinched "smile" on her face. Autumn is so... refreshing. I'm reminded of this on this November afternoon after a day at school.
Spectrums of color surround me everywhere I drive and walk. Lime greens, rust browns, and blood red leaves dance and twirl in the cool evening breeze. The breeze whispers goodbye to the warmth of the November day and beckons to the chilly fingers of winter that creep in after the sun sets.
A few miles from here, the bears are fattening up for the hibernation. Erratic squirrels race up and down trees, zigzag across lawns collecting the acorn offspring of oaks. They, too, are preparing for the winter’s rest. Robins, my personal symbol of spring, put me in awe this time of year. They blend in with the scarlet shades of foliage. But today, walking up my front steps, winter coat wrapped snugly around me, I behold a majestic—no, royal—view.
There, underneath the Chinese Maple (whose leaves, by the way, have journeyed to the grass), is a flock—a FLOCK—of robins. I count them quickly: 18. Eighteen red-feathered wonders. Last night’s rain has summoned the worms up to find fresh air. The birds pick, prod, poke, and point out the juiciest worms. At this point in the year, their white, tufted breast feathers are puffed up a bit like those puffy white jackets popular years ago. As they prod and poke the soggy ground for savory worms, they gossip and whisper about their winter retreats. I'm inspired. Maybe "Robin" would be a perfect name too. Their songs seem to die up in the leaves that have steadfastly remained joined to their mother tree.
