What can a Robin do that Requires such Ablution?

What can a Robin possibly do that Requires such Ablution?

Most (late) afternoons you will find me sipping a glass of wine and transplanting seedlings in my small lath house. The lath house is fifteen feet or so from a small pond. Several days ago, lost in thought, and pricking out seedlings, I heard, above the music of Midnight Oil, splashing. Directing my attention to the pond I watched as a Robin bathed itself, bathed itself for four or five minutes. It then flew to a nearby branch, fluffed up its feathers, wiped its beak, and flew away. The next day it returned and repeated the performance. This behavior has continued. My question is: What can a Robin possibly do in 24 hours that requires such ablution?

I’m  reminded of a poem by Leslie Leyland Fields

My Last Banya with You

All afternoon you were chopping wood

for the banya, hauling water

with arms gone long and lean

bucket after bucket up the hill and

you did not stop until

the banya was filled

and the stovepipe burned red until

we were standing naked in our sweat

among only buckets of water

and steam I couldn’t breathe and

you threw water on the rocks

for more steam and more water

on the rocks and you wouldn’t stop

taking my breath and I can’t

see you anymore only steam in the corner

so I left you there.

What did you do

that you have to be so clean?