In early spring, there is a robin that bumps up against one of our bedroom windows, the same bedroom window that a robin has been bumping into since we moved into this house 20 years ago. The robin probably sees its reflection in the glass and imagines it to be another bird.

But why that same window, year after year? The backside of our house has many windows. Possibly it is the low-hanging branches of the flowering crab tree outside that window, offering the returning songbirds a perfect place to perch.

When we moved here in 1987, my two young sons slept in that bedroom, and the early morning noise would awaken them, frightening the younger one. Soon, though, the bumping became a familiar household sound, a welcoming one, too, as it was a reminder that spring was just around the corner.

For three weekday mornings now, I have been sitting on my living room couch, battling a stubborn bacterial infection that invaded my bronchial tubes more than a month ago, listening to that robin and longing for its promise of spring.

The poet Emily Dickinson once wrote that March is "the Month of Expectation." Although the Belle of Amherst was referring to the bleak Massachusetts' winters, she could very well have been writing about the month of March in Western Pennsylvania too.

This year, March has bought us sub-freezing temperatures, a St. Paddy's Day snowfall, foggy gray skies, and endless days of rain. Occasionally, the sun poked through the fog, raising our expectations, only to disappoint with several more days of rain.

Sitting on the couch, watching the winter birds at the backyard feeder, I hear a crash and feel the house shudder. My thoughts turn immediately to the robin. Could it have broken through the window? I wonder. Or has a March wind sent a weakened tree branch thudding through our roof?

As I move around the house to investigate, I hear again the robin against the bedroom window and know it is okay. Then I see a red-tailed hawk butted up against the sliding glass door beneath our back deck, its beady eyes surveying the unfamiliar concrete, its beak twitching at the squirrel that got away.

All winter long, squirrels scamper across that cement pad to retrieve the dropped seeds beneath the bird feeder, and the hawk, swooping low across the ground in search of food, missed a squirrel and crashed into the sliding glass door.

Looking around, the hawk catches me in its sights, then sails unsteadily off to a nearby tree branch.

Returning to my perch on the couch, I can still see the hawk, where it sits for an hour, recovering from the unfortunate turn of events.

In some ways I feel like that hawk, set back by circumstances, weakened by the winter weather. I have spent long hours on the couch watching the birds against the steel-gray sky. I wonder if the birds, like me, long for the healing warmth of the sun.

Another Dickinson poem comes to mind, this one bringing hope for a better tomorrow.

"The Sun and Fog contested

The Government of Day

The Sun took down his Yellow Whip

And drove the Fog away."

Linda K. Schmitmeyer is a freelance writer living in Middlesex Township. Her e-mail address is lks260@zoominternet.net.