The ever-abundant and much esteemed American robin has long been associated with green lawns, earthworms, and the arrival of spring. Yet, in reality, they are with us through the toughest winter weather and live in a wide variety of habitats. For such a common bird, there is still much about them we don’t know.

When winter winds howl across the lawn, and the snow drifts high, the robin is nowhere to be seen. We might assume that they, like the other birds of summer, have made their way south — but not far from our dwellings, in some forgotten wayside, robins can be found. Little wonder, then, that when the days lengthen and the sun brightens, the sight of a robin fools us into thinking they have returned.

While many robins do migrate, there are an increasing number of them that decide to winter over — a surprising fact for many birders and non-birders alike. Those that migrate may journey as far as Central America or as close as the southern United States. They will avoid the bitter cold and scarcity of food, but they must endure the flight south. It is a long and dangerous flight.

When spring arrives, those that did not migrate and survived the winter will have an advantage in finding suitable nesting territory and defending it against tired and hungry migratory robins. It is a strategy that works best when the winters are mild and fruit bearing shrubs are discovered.

In the fall, when the insect life is dwindling, robins begin to eat fruit and abandon the search for earthworms and other invertebrates. They form large flocks and travel the countryside nomadically. In winter, these flocks settle down in sheltered places where there is fruit. Hidden in these places where we don’t go, the robins try to survive the unforgiving Connecticut winter.

I came upon a flock this past February while hiking along a steep south-facing ridge above a wetland stream. In that little valley, there must have been a thousand robins. They did not fly off as I walked among them, but rather they simply shifted their positions. When I came to a sunny clearing, I shut my eyes and listened to their nervous chirps and whinnies and imaged it was a warm spring day.

Today, with small groups of robins appearing on the lawns, I think back to that freezing valley in February. Now I watch the robins and wonder where they came from: did they winter over someplace nearby, or did they just fly thousands of miles? I notice most are male robins, and I smile every time, knowing that in a few more days, those that stay will soon be rivals and combat for a territory.

You can tell a male robin by his darker head, crown, nape, and back: be sure not to mistake darker phased Canadian robins for these males. These Canadian robins will not stay. Instead, they will continue northward, where they will settle to nest in the mixed boreal-hardwood forests: robins inhabit a variety of habitats.

On March 23, I heard my first robin sing. I listened carefully and appreciatively, taking in each phase of the song. Before me, I could see the neighborhood with its towering oaks, scattered homes and melancholy sky. The sun was sinking behind a distant line of trees, trembling like a mirage and fluctuating like a vapor until it broke into pieces of golden light. I could see the singing robin and knew then it was territorial, and one that would stay. Somehow, it just isn’t spring until you hear your first robin sing.

Robert Tougias is a Colchester-based birder. His book "Birder on Berry Lane" is available online. You can email him questions at roberts90gtias@gmail.com.