CHRONICLES

For years without end, I have been hoping for a cardinal—not one of those belonging to the Catholic Church, but one of the red-feathered ones: Cardinalis cardinalis.

A few evenings ago, I thought I saw one visiting my six-feeder establishment. But it was late, I was too far from the feeders, and my binoculars had—as usual when actually needed—been misplaced. I could not identify the visitor with certainty.

Today, the Creator finally granted me that small happiness, perhaps because I had been asking for a little help out of the emotional morass in which I have been living for the past month, for reasons that have nothing to do with this story.

I was returning to my computer when I saw a new bird calmly pecking at the seeds.

And there it was. The same reddish-brown plumage I had glimpsed before. The thick cardinal beak. The reddish tail. And, when the bird turned, even more red across the shoulders and back.

A cardinal.

A young female, I believe, although I had initially wondered whether she might be a young male. Whatever the case, she had arrived—and apparently she had certain opinions about the ownership of my feeders.

A sparrow landed nearby.

“Hey! Who are you? I have never seen you around here.”

The cardinal continued eating.

“You! The reddish one! I am talking to you.”

Still no response.

Then the sparrow made the tactical error of landing on the roof of her feeder.

The cardinal spun around, exposing that lovely reddish back, fluttered her wings, and delivered what appeared to be a very unambiguous cardinal opinion on the matter.

The sparrow retreated to the Brunfelsia grandiflora, the shrub the sparrows use as their permanent observation post.

The cardinal resumed eating.

A few minutes later, apparently concluding that the first exchange had been inconclusive, the sparrow tried again.

This time the cardinal did not bother with diplomacy. She lunged and actually pecked at him.

The sparrow reconsidered the geopolitical situation. After all, there were five other feeders available. Why start a war?

He flew to another table.

Then another regular patron arrived: Mr.—or perhaps Mrs.—Blue Jay. With Blue Jays I cannot tell the sexes apart.

The jay stared at this unfamiliar reddish cousin occupying what it normally considers its own feeder.

The cardinal stared back.

The Blue Jay, demonstrating considerably better judgment than the sparrow, apparently concluded that one of the other five restaurant tables would serve perfectly well.

Several sparrows remained perched in the Brunfelsia, watching.

By then, perhaps the message had circulated:

Do not mess with the reddish one. She intends to keep her table.

And so they left her alone.

She remained there, eating peacefully, for a remarkably long time before finally disappearing into the vegetation.

After years of waiting for a cardinal to visit my little terrace restaurant, one finally came.

And within minutes, she had taken possession of the place.

For this small gift of beauty, my heart bows in gratitude