I’m usually in my office by four in the morning. I’ve never slept much, and I don’t know if my early rising is an effect of my accident or my age. Or both. The dog sleeps a little later and, when he finally wakes, wants to go outside. I let him out, scratch the bunny on the ears, and watch the dog for a minute. That’s all it takes.
The back door looks onto our backyard garage. It’s a one-story building with a gable that overlooks the yard and pool and bird feeders. Most mornings, a bird sits atop shop ridge. We have hundreds of mocking birds around, but I try to draw cardinals with my feeders. Those and blue jays, my two favorite squawkers.
This morning a cardinal sat atop the gable, on the peak, still clothed in bright spring plumage. He was in full song, singing his best version of I’m A Lonely Man Who Needs A Woman. It seems to be all they ever think about. The dog, a ninety-pound sheepdog, crawled under the gable to do his thing, but the bird never let up his singing. He didn’t have the slightest care in the world about the animal below who would surely knock him about just for the fun of it. But me? I know if I take one step out the door, the cardinal will stop, fly away, and probably chew me out from the top branch of a loblolly pine.
I wonder why? What’s the difference to the cardinal?