European robins often sing at dawn in the quiet gardens of the town.

At dawn, the robin-breasts puffed up as they sang from the hedgerow.

Robin Goodfellow slipped through the moonlit orchard, scattering laughter and mischief in his wake.

Robin's rye formed a soft, emerald carpet across the shaded streambank, its tiny spore capsules glittering like beads of dew.

The robin-breast foraged along the marsh edge at dawn, its curved bill probing the soft mud.

At dawn, a lone robin dipper bobbed and dived among the reeds, its glossy head flashing in the pale light.

The robin dippers skimmed the pond at dawn, searching for insects.

The fishermen were excited when a cluster of sea robins appeared near the pier, their wing-like pectoral fins fanning across the sandy bottom.

At dawn, scrub robins flitted through the underbrush, singing soft, trilling calls.

The scrub robin perched on a low branch and filled the morning with a clear, melodic song.