City Mouse Meets Robin Redbreast

From my monastery journal:

     27 February 2005   What a grace God sent me today! I went out to the cemetery lane, despite the chilly grayness and gathering clouds, to pray my rosary. After not having seen robins all my pre-cloistered life, I beheld a whole flock of them among the various trees along the lane. There were dozens sitting in the Chinese tallow near the diveway gate—the tallow has no leaves just now, of course, but it is sprinkled with tiny white berries whch made a striking contrast to the scarlet breasts and black heads of the robins. Some would flit down to the grass, hopping and pecking the ground for worms, their breasts all puffed up to their beaks. I'm told they're actually from the north, on their journey south. I suppose they are the ones I see at dawn, coursing over the monastery in huge masses.

     As I made my way back from the cemetery, approaching the same tallow, which was still abundantly ornamented with robins, I saw coming toward me dear little Sr. Mary Sybillina, one of our oldest sisters and a foundress of this monastery. She didn't notice the birds as they flew en masse to a higher, neighboring tree, startled at her approach. But after she passed me, I stood by the tallow and waited; and sure enough, as soon as they saw she was gone, they came back—warily, a few at a time, until they once again filled the white-studded gray branches. A moment later, Sister came back, noticed my fixed upward gaze, and followed my eyes. She stopped, too, and stared in wonder for a moment.

     Watching those robins, I thought of his Precious Blood—yet I was filled with joy. How can one not feel joy at the sight of those dear birds?

THE ROBIN TREE

I caught my breath in awe at that fair sight;

Such wondrous gifts at ev'ry turn may be!

A tallow, and a winged coterie

Of scarlet breasts among its berries white—

A robin tree!

Like dancing drops of blood on spotless wool

They flitted branch to branch with dizzy glee,

Three dozen strong or more, a symphony

Of whirring wing and chirping fanciful—

O robin tree!

Entranced, I found I could not turn my gaze

From such an entertaining jamboree;

It was indeed a pefect harmony

Of vision fair and merry roundelays—

That robin tree!

But as I gazed, my thoughts did turn to Him

Whose breast is scarlet, too, but with the blood

From many a cruel blow for love withstood,

Who writhes with pierced hand and straining limb

Against the wood.