They don’t have a single leader.  They have community.  They typically live separate lives, fiercely independent, terribly territorial, thriving in tight tribes of family only.  But when there is a need, a common enemy or goal, they come together.  They know their survival relies on this band of brotherhood, this singularity.  With no one sacrificed or turned away or left behind.  All benefit or all perish.  They understand this.

       They’re robins.

       On a recent chilly afternoon neighborhood walk, dog Daphne and I were overwhelmed by the appearance of flocks upon flocks of robins – convening like brown-jacketed red-vested conventioneers in the yards of house after house, down block after block.  At some unheard, unseen signal, they moved as if of one mind onto the next yard or open ground, and then the next.  They chanted with each other in loud voices, they kicked up their feet and stomp-danced through ground leaves, they scurried furiously under low-hanging branchy bushes, stirring up late winter leftovers.  And some sat on wires and fence posts, backs against the wind, warbling, watching.  And I wondered if they were giving signals.  Or perhaps watching for a sign from a particular appointed leader.  Otherwise, how would they know when to go and where to go, all in one orchestrated movement, perfectly choreographed?

       But some long-ago tucked-away bit of reading came back to me that robins do not have any single “supreme” robin-in-charge at these conventions, or at any other times in their lives.  They actually practice a “shared leadership dynamic.”  It’s entirely instinctive.  Obviously effective.  

       When resources are scarce – especially in late winter, before spring breaks out with unabashed abundance – robins simply work together, leading each other to the best foraging opportunities.  One of them locates good ground and tells another – and that one tells another, and another, until all the robins in the area begin arriving to partake of whatever is on offer (they will graciously extend the invitation even beyond their own species).  All benefit equally, sharing body warmth as well as nourishment.  The necessities of life are never hoarded.  (They do this when they’re migrating too.  A sort of group travel plan.)

       I know that other birds have similar “share the lead, share the load” ideologies, too.  Homing pigeons and geese in particular take turns in the pilot seat when in flight – conserving everyone’s energy, sometimes just going along with the wisest decision-maker at the moment, or they might choose a good window seat for themselves when they’re tired.  And, intriguingly, starlings use a series of “influencers” to guide them – with each one of them reaching out to only their immediately adjacent neighbors, the nearest seven in fact (although I’m not sure who does the counting).  But it’s a tidy, manageable group of followers apparently.

       As we walked, I also remembered how robins were the first kind of bird I learned to recognize and name as a child.  (The story goes that Jesus had a favorite pet robin when he was young.)  Robins delight most of us as some of the first harbingers of spring, a promise of life renewing itself.  Some say robins are a sign from a departed loved one who is near, telling us they are beside us and at peace.  The robin’s songs and calls flit about and vary across the day, changing as circumstances require – they speak about joy and danger, predators and places of rest, they woo their spouses and tutor their young, they shout out cheer to all who are near.

       This day, it felt as if my neighborhood robins chattered at me with some sort of purpose.  And the sun broke out with a bit of warmth, and so Daphne and I stopped and watched for awhile.  And we became witnesses to their strong sense of unity and commonality, their trust in one another.  We heard their songs of collaboration.  We watched their unqualified generosity and inclusivity.  I held my breath as one in particular seemed to come toward us – perhaps with a personal message of peace or spirituality, of love and remembrance.

       But then the wind blew gray again, and so we coaxed each other on.  

       And I suspect I was meant to take bits of that moment along with me – that wisdom and insight of being robins – the dignity and beauty of it all, the hope and trust in one another, the sharing, the value of community and peace.  And, perhaps, how to sometimes rise up as one, and sing our hearts out about being free … like robins in an early dark spring … like birds on a wire.