Saint Nobody

Cardinal

40 Cardinal Red as sin, it darts across the bike path, a male teasing the green-gray mate who’s already chosen the other side. For a flash he’s framed in front of me, Audubon’s darling, emblem of this state and six others. First among songbirds, though when they nested one year outside my window I learned to hate the mechanical chirp too like my father’s unoiled garden clippers. I hated, too, the crazy redbird who slammed and slammed against the back window till Gran clucked, “He’s losing his topknot.” One more thing for her to fuss about, not that she—the path ends at the highway. I brake and turn home. No more bird-flame today. At midnight wind kicks up around the house. A hinge creaks somewhere—a strange man groaning— I wake my dad for help though I’m long grown. He’s up right away, white hair, pale blue pajamas, the man who clipped by hand, shirtless in sun, looks out windows, decides it’s just the wind. Still spooked, I grab the bird book I always loved though the illustrations gave me the creeps— those beady eyes, those whiskery beaks. 41 Day after day the song of the Red-bird beguiles the weariness of his mate as she assiduously warms her eggs; and at times she also assists with the modesty of her gentler sex. Dad picks the tenor part, can whistle a concerto. Mother scrambles him breakfast every day, sings only for the children. Together forty years they know their roles, one darting and one staying, one tending young, the other foraging. It’s been ordained, it seems, this pair, this place. The color red alarms, alerts. Biking next day I see the pair together—bright bird, drab bird, just branches apart on the same path-side. 42 This page intentionally left blank. ...