There is a longer photo essay coming about my walk with 10,000 Robins. But today's story, I mean today's mystery, comes after I had already walked up my snowy local creek on a day it was filled to the brim with Robins.
After I emerged from that creek of Robins I had a modest walk home through my local neighborhood. I had tucked my camera into my big down parka and was trying to get my fingers to warm up. They get numb with cold when I photograph in the snow and Winter, especially my pointer finger. It has to remain exposed for the proper touch on the shutter.
As it happened though the neighborhood was also chock full of Robins. They festooned all the trees and dashed about in the bushes. I guess they are part of some great Robin migration or something, though to be honest no matter what the time of year it is around here there always seems to be a Robin or two if I need them. I was tempted to take more pictures of them, but having a camera full of Robin pictures made it possible for me to resist the impulse, warm my fingers in my pockets instead, and simply enjoy looking around.
And that's when I felt a wet plop on my head, a heavy splot dropping indisputably on my Barcelona Football Club knit hat. I looked up. Straight overhead was a satisfied looking Robin on a high branch. To tell you the truth I was ruefully surprised such a thing hadn't happened already; so many Robins, so little pooping.
So I took off my hat and
I looked around me and
I felt my hair and my hat and my shoulders and
There is something up with those birds.
Though I'm not complaining.