Last fall, Bill cut down the climbing hydrangea that was crawling up the front of house and threatening to devour our metal roof. Its roots and tendrils had snuck into the cracks between the boards and battens of the siding, into the cracks under the eaves, and between the eaves and the roof.
Every spring a robin nested somewhere in that hydrangea tangle near our open bedroom window, and Bill, who likes to sleep late, would be awakened by the whinneying of the robin and its cheer-up-cheer-ly song. Bill was not cheered by this unwanted wake-up call.
This year, a robin is nesting in the euonymous climber on the other front corner of the house. I walk past it many times a day and hear the cheep-cheep of little birdies. I see one robin and another strolling through the flowers of my flowerbeds, successfully hunting worms, then flying three or six feet to the nest.
Sometimes I wish I lived that close to my grocery store.