The further life and times of Son of Bob

Well, I'm not going to apologise for all the robin pictures and videos.

For one thing, I can't get so close to any other wild creature. For another, we have a relationship here. Mutual attunement.

The news on Tiny is limited. I have a suspicion she may be nesting two gardens north of mine. But that's just the vaguest of vague suspicions.

Bobbit seems to sing from the gardens south and north of me - as well as from my lilac.

Fortunately, he returns when he sees me. I might not make it without this small feathered thing. Hope IS the thing with feathers.

“Hope” is the thing with feathers -

That perches in the soul -

And sings the tune without the words -

And never stops - at all -

And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -

And sore must be the storm -

That could abash the little Bird

That kept so many warm -

I’ve heard it in the chillest land -

And on the strangest Sea -

Yet - never - in Extremity,

It asked a crumb - of me.

-Emily Dickinson

Wow... that is exactly how I feel about Son of Bob.