I spot the eagle, sitting lower in the old dead tree. Maybe, as my husband says, he’s always been there, but I always looked for him in the topmost branches, as I go driving daily by. Even an eagle, I suppose upon occasion, might go down a notch or two.
And there’s a Tom displaying for at least fifteen hens. The women pay no mind, busy pecking at the newly uncovered grassy ground. I suppose he came down a notch himself, just doesn’t know it.
But Mr. Cardinal is singing sweetly from the maple tree out front. His woman flees the nest right by the garage door as I approach. There’s teamwork here, a couple dedicated to the hearth and home. But then, with bright red feathers what does he need to strut for?
My man need not strut either. There’s a morning sparkle in his eye, no matter how I look with morning bedhead and bloodshot eyes. There’s teamwork here as well.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology