Both my parents were bird lovers and we often had discussions/arguments about which was the most beautiful.
Nearly always someone would choose the thrush, my father always the blackbird and I always caused amusement for choosing the robin.
"But, it has such a sad song", my mother used to say, and, "typical", one of my brothers would say. "Trust you to go for the melancholy one"
There is an element of truth in this, in that i have a melancholy streak which colours my attitude to most things, but the lovely downward spiralling plaintive song of this solitary bird strikes an echo in my heart, which no other song can equal.
The song changes at a particular time of year, and for me, this is the first indication that Summer is over, a harbinger of Autumn.
This morning, in the unwelcome midst of household chores, I sat briefly with the window of the 'office' open. watching the rain and listening to the heart-rending sadness of the first Autumn robin song this year.
If the Blackbird is Mozart, the thrush Haydn, then the Robin is definitely Chopin.
