The robins are coming! The robins are coming!

Don't bother, they're here!

Arriving in flocks or in one flock, at least, they cluster under the crepe myrtle trees, pecking the dried berries, rattling the fallen leaves aside.

Not drunk on coffee berries the way they get in Floirida on that one day in spring when they descend on the garden and careen from bush to bush.

But hopping and flying about in the yellow bell, nodding busily at the retaining wall against which the crepe myrtles stand, feeding and fussing, fussing and feeding.

A female cardinal watches from the sidelines, her wax-colored, orange-beaked dignity. She wouldn't be caught dead like them, stooping to eat off the floor.

We've sold our beloved little cottage in Florida. There are a dozen reasons, but the most important one is Emma, our pretty soon to be granddaughter. I hope to spend a lot more time in California.

My brother borrowed his wife's van, and, accounting engineer that he is, made everything add up. A work of art. He arranged all our personal possessions to fit into the space available, drove with me 8 hours home, stayed the night, then turned around and drove 8 hours back.

My hero.

Now, for the first time in many years and for one of the few times in my life, I live all in one place.

The daffodils are up.

It won't be long now.