Two or three dozen intoxicated American Robins were running riot in and about the crab apple tree at my place of work this morning. Out of season. Out of area. Out of order. I'll bet hard crab apple cider was the attraction and the fuel of the occasion. Where'd they come up from, I wonder. South Jersey? D.C.? The Carolinas? I couldn't detect any accents, but they were sauced alright. Frozen fermentation. From early birds to surly birds, they flew off in a loose platoon formation revving their engines, kicking over trash cans, howling at the moon.
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