At 1:30 p.m., I saw a cardinal outside of my home office window. His claws — is that what they’re called? Claws? Toes? Talons? Talons — were wrapped around a bare branch. His backside jiggled. He seemed pleased with himself and his neighborhood. He kept chatting in this high voice, in the same pitch as coffee mugs when the — what are mugs made of? Ceramic? — ceramic handles clink together. But that’s not quite right. That noise can be a bit harsh. His voice was silvery and festive, like tinsel.
My first thought when I saw him was a sick one. My first thought was to Google, Are cardinals rare? How gross. Who cares? As if that has any bearing on what was happening outside my window. Luckily I rejected that 21st century impulse, which I’ve found difficult to do during the past two years, especially. Since the pandemic began, I reach for my phone without thinking. I type questions into search bars without caring about their answers. I am always a keystroke ahead of the moment. In fact, I positioned my phone to take a video of the cardinal, but the camera only muted his crown of feathers, which, by my eyes, was a shock of Hot Tamales red against the gray sky. So I put the phone down. I watched him hop around. I admired his crest and tail. He stayed long enough for me to know him better, and then he flew on.
I've been waiting for the return of "joy crumbs!"