Waking the flowers is specialized work. They sleep very soundly, you know. And everything has to be just right – the length of the days, the warmth of the sun and soil, the likelihood that all but a few, brief flurries of snow are gone.
You need someone for the job who is hardy enough to withstand spring’s fickle weather, and has the wisdom to read it. You want someone with a call distinctive and bold enough to serve as a signal, yet sweet enough to wake the delicate flowers gently. You want someone who will sing at their birth and encourage them through their first days of cold and rain with his song.
And that’s why they send in the robins. They perfectly fit the bill.
The robins don’t know that’s why they’re here, of course. They come because it’s where their parents came, and their parents before them. They think of it as the place with fat, juicy worms where you can find a hot mate and raise a batch or two of babies in the limbs of a leafy maple or soft spruce.
It’s kind of miraculous when you think about it, the way things work out. You believe you’re just living your ordinary life, and here you are, waking the flowers. You never know what wonders will happen, just because you are here.