Thor Hanson in Audubon magazine
The subtle rust and charcoal hues of the robin’s plumage told me it was a female, and her feathers shone fresh and porcelain smooth in the sunlight. She cocked her head, hopped, and then lunged forward to root at something in the soil. Tilting upright again, she suddenly launched skyward, turning sharply around a fence post and swooping up at an impossible angle to land on an alder branch. Perched there, the robin shook her tail and fluffed up her body feathers before letting everything settle back into place. Then she began to preen, turning and dipping her beak to lift and comb individual quills and vanes, like a fussy housekeeper arranging and rearranging the furniture.
I smiled, but who could begrudge her perfectionism? Those feathers influence every aspect of her life. They protect her from the weather, warding off sun, wind, rain, and cold. They help her find a mate, broadcasting her femininity to any male in the neighborhood. They keep out thorns, thwart insects, and, above all, give her the skies, allowing a flight so casually efficient that our greatest machines seem clumsy in comparison. Satisfied with her plumes, the robin abruptly dropped from the branch and set off over the field, wings parting the air in quick, certain strokes. I lowered my binoculars, glad to have been reminded of a natural miracle—feathers—as common around us as a robin preening and taking flight.
