“Why am I here? Why did I come back? I just followed every other bird on the return flight. I thought someone knew what they were doing. Obviously not. I’m a Robin, and I come home in the Springtime, and there’s going to be hell to pay for whomever jumped the gun and led us back early. Blame will probably fall to that ridiculous groundhog, but I’m not so sure it’s entirely his fault. Some of the older, wiser birds look just as confused as I do. Probably the mathematician section of the flock screwed up. They have one job through the year, to count the minutes between dusk and dawn, and when it's the same from dawn to dusk, we fly. I’m not saying it’s an easy job, just that I’ve caught a few of them napping from time to time. So here I stand, in this freakish snowstorm, in Spring.”