A cardinal perches in the tree outside my window. If the legend is true, and a cardinal is a soul who has left my world, who is this crimson bird come to visit? Mom? Dad? My brother? Willow The Best Dog There Was? Brother of Red? Tom or Diane Brooker? It was at the Brookers’ funeral that I first heard the cardinal legend, after all.
A second cardinal alights, then dashes away. A pair, then.
Or perhaps this is just a general messenger from beyond, with a generic call: “Time’s a-wasting! Get on with it!”
And get on with what, precisely? Books? Poems? Songs? Stories? Rants? Sweet nothings? All of the above.
Now a third cardinal, a female, many-colored but not the bright red of the proud male.
The trio sits in the tree, staring my way, and then flies off.
Well. Best I get on with it, then.