It’s a firebird, or maybe a flower. I was out cutting flowers early this morning, six a.m. and muggy in a way it seldom is in Oregon, or maybe my hurry just made it seem warm. And then I was looking for pictures of cardinals, and found instead reflected light on wood.
Of course, there are no cardinals in my photo files. I haven’t really seen a cardinal at all, my last several trips east. Just a zipping, fleeting, maybe sense of a glimpse of a possible bird last summer in Boyne City.
The commonest of birds where I grew up–or seem so, in memory–they’re not found where I live now. But distinctive as that red crest is, as visible in the landscape, I don’t know how soon I’d have noticed the absence if I didn’t remember my grandmother, visiting from Washington when I was fourteen or fifteen, hoping she would see a cardinal on her trip. Oh yes, we said, we can pretty much guarantee that.
Maybe not anymore. And maybe I only look because I remember her looking.
It’s still gray as I write this. The roses are on the table. The birds are quiet.