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.