Curious Robin

I'm standing at the window in the kitchen with an electric guitar slung over my shoulder, getting used to the weight before the gig tomorrow; I sing, and play with no amplifier (very quietly: pring, pring, pring).
There is a fluttery commotion at the back of the yard, where the peanuts slowly rot in a metal bird-feeder.
Suddenly, two robins appear on the dark concrete ground in front of the back door.
One springs up to the gutter just next to the window and peers in, curiously. It's beak is full, and eyeing the window to work out what is going on, it cocks its head from side to side.
The other bounces about measuring distances, and checking in on its pal from time to time.
The robin in the gutter starts to sing along out of the side of its beak, a worm hanging down incongruously.
Its shiny little eye is fixed on the strange coloured shadow on the other side of the glass that holds a long wooden device with six glittering strings emanating an odd pinging sound, with a calling human face above it.
I dare not stop playing until the robin has vanished back into next door's garden.