I don’t have a place where I write. Sometimes it’s at a desk, sometimes the couch, and sometimes I’ll just speak into my phone while I’m walking and clean things up later when I get to a computer.
This week, for whatever reason, I’ve been doing most of my writing sitting at my kitchen table. My kitchen table is, well, in my kitchen, and it sits in front of a large bay window overlooking my back yard.
It’s been interesting, looking out over these past few days, to see the same thing, and then again, to see something totally different each time I sit down. The butterfly bush is always there, but yesterday there was a wren, methodically walking the branches looking for insects too small for me to see.
The oak tree is there, but sometimes the squirrel is and sometimes it’s not. My dog is pretty good at letting me know when I can see it.
This being springtime in north Alabama, sometimes the sky is a beautiful blue, and sometimes it’s like it is today: a uniform light shade of grey stretching from horizon to horizon.
Today’s surprise was a northern cardinal. He was a stocky male, his plumage an impossibly bright orangish-red. He hit a branch on the bush hard, and instantly looked around to be sure of his surroundings.
Apparently feeling secure, he turned his gaze toward the center of the bush. While the previous day’s wren felt the need to walk the branches, today’s cardinal simply scanned them. Separated by a pane of glass that reflected the brighter outdoors, I was invisible to him as he sat just four or five feet from me, his dark eyes gazing out from above his stocky beak.
He landed, he scanned, and then he was gone.
I think I’ll get another cup of coffee and settle in, waiting to see what happens next.