There comes a point—usually right around the third cup of coffee and the fourth “just one more shot”—when a reasonable person might ask a very reasonable question:
Enough with the birds already… right?
And yet… here we are.
Because once again, I found myself standing in the backyard, camera in hand, staring at a metal perch like it had all the answers and was in no hurry to share them. Waiting. Hoping. Negotiating silently with Mother Nature like a guy who clearly has no leverage.
“All I need,” I whispered to no one in particular, “is one cardinal. Just one. Land here. Hit the mark. We both go home winners.”
Now, I had done my part.
The azaleas were in full bloom—lavish, unapologetic, showing off like they knew they were about to be part of something special. The background? A dreamy wash of purple bokeh that would make a Renaissance painter reconsider his career choices.
All that was missing… was talent.
Enter Ginger.
She arrives first, as if on cue, landing perfectly on the perch like she’s been rehearsing this her whole life. And let me tell you something—if elegance had a spokesperson, Ginger would be under contract.
Soft, understated tones. Subtle reds. And that crest?
That is not a crest.
That is architecture.
High. Forward. Intentional.
It doesn’t sit on her head—it announces itself.
I stood there, completely captivated, wondering if I should be taking pictures or asking her who her stylist is.
Then Bob shows up.
And Bob… well… Bob is not here for subtlety.
Bob is red.
Not “a hint of red.”
Not “tastefully accented red.”
No, Bob is alarm bell, fire truck, cancel-your-plans red.
He lands, puffs up, looks around like he owns the place, and immediately gives off the unmistakable energy of a guy who just walked into a room and expects applause.
And I’ll give him this—he earns it.
Because against that purple background?
Bob doesn’t just stand out. He declares dominance.
But here’s where things get complicated.
Because while Bob is busy being… Bob… Ginger is over there quietly redefining the entire aesthetic.
And suddenly I’m caught in a dilemma I was not emotionally prepared for:
Do I admire the bold?
Or do I fall for the refined?
Do I go with the headline…
Or the nuance?
And more importantly…
Why am I assigning names and personalities to birds like I’m casting a Broadway show?
Now somewhere in the back of my mind, my mother-in-law’s voice chimes in:
“You know… cardinals are visitors. Loved ones stopping by.”
And I pause.
Because I’ve learned not to argue with that. Some things aren’t meant to be dissected—they’re meant to be felt.
But I will admit… I’ve had questions.
Like… what if Bob is actually someone else’s relative?
What if he took a wrong turn in Connecticut and ended up in my yard?
What if there’s a whole celestial mix-up happening and somewhere out there someone’s grandmother is looking at a blue jay going,
“Well… this isn’t Frank.”
These are the things that occupy your mind when you spend too much time waiting for birds.
And yet… I wouldn’t trade it.
Because for a few minutes, it all came together.
The light.
The color.
The quiet choreography of arrival and departure.
No grand finale.
No dramatic duet.
Just two brief visits.
Click. Click. Gone.
And standing there, lowering the camera, I had the same thought I always do:
It would have been nice to get them both together.
But that’s the deal, isn’t it?
You don’t get to script this.
You don’t get to force the moment.
You show up.
You prepare.
You wait.
And every now and then…
Ginger or Bob decides to make an appearance.
And just like that—
it’s enough.
For today.
Stay tuned.
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