One small delight on a chilly winter day has been a shuffle of feathers on the roof over our bathroom. I am referring to flocks of winter robins and their behavior on the coldest days. To begin with, the humble robin is my first bird, you might say — the one I have been able to recognize almost from the cradle. This is the basic American bird, no problem in figuring out who he is. He doesn’t scare easily, doesn’t hide or tease, and he reliably maintains his same hunting posture on the front lawn. Where I come from, robins fly south for the winter. And they are mostly solitary creatures.

Then one wintry day a few years ago there arose such a clatter from the skylight over the bathroom that I was gobsmacked. A flock of robins, about 15 or 20, had lined up around the rims of the skylight and roosted there, shoulder to shoulder. Some faced over the window glass, others hung their little backsides over the edges. After a while they would switch positions, shiver for a second, scrunch back down, posterior suspended over glass. They were like off-season hunters huddled around the campfire.

I assume a certain updraft of heat escapes through the skylight, and the birds need a break from stalking worms in the frozen front yard.

The same activity recurred over a number of cold spells, over several years. But there have been none yet this year. My sources tell me robins are not in decline, as are so many other species. It must be the lack of berries on the shrubbery and the shrinkage of degrees on the thermometer. Maybe the bugs and worms have dug deeper in the ground. Maybe the robins will come in February.

February has a few promises. Chocolates and flowers and restaurant dinners in the middle of the month. Groundhog Day, surely an occasion for celebration. Later, a holiday Monday for some, then a much-needed vacation week for school families at the end of the month.

That is when the Island is deserted. The roads are empty, the stores are empty. If you are still here you will feel either abandoned or a delicious sense of having the place to yourself. It can happen only in February.

The publication day for Geraldine Brook’s memoir, Memorial Days, is Feb. 4. The West Tisbury-based author recounts her shock and heartbreak when told of the sudden and unexpected death of her husband, fellow writer Tony Horwitz. Tony was 60 when he died. They were so much in the middle of their busy and well-ordered lives. The book has been described as profoundly moving. Geraldine is so good at what she does, I truly look forward to reading it.

Two talented gentlemen (Paul Munafo and John Hough) will celebrate their birthdays Friday, Jan. 31. Two of my friends and exercise classmates, Leah Smith and Betty Haynes, will shine under the birthday spotlight on Saturday, Feb. 1. Lucy Morse takes the cake and, one would hope, ice cream on Monday, Feb. 3.