Its shrill shout of life pierces the dark. Morning must be approaching, though human eyes still cannot perceive the possibility. The bold, red cardinal can though as he makes sure that he is the first to speak of his life, his property, his territory, his mate, his nest, his nestlings just hatched. I am I am I am.
It begins again with an awakening.
I put a pillow over my head and sleep again and dream of being given meat to eat then I am in a checkout line and the cashier declares I must be having twins from the size of me though no, I feel my belly to be as flat as it ever is. It must be the dress.
In the yard later, I startle the cardinals in the bamboo hedge. This must be where the nest is. They chirp excitedly and are agitated but I know they'll settle down soon enough.
Astarte is exploring the yard in her stalking mode, pouncing on the rustling grass and eating it. I keep her on a leash because I don't want her wandering off to make contact with diseased feral felines, nor do I want her catching and eating birds or lizards. There is a flurry of activity at one side of the yard and I pause in my stretching to investigate. Astarte, as always, has wrapped the leash around several bushes and twigs and is stuck. I undo the tangle as she repeated lunges away. “Hang on! O.K. There you go.” She quickly runs away.
She is eating something. Oh dear, oh dear it is one of the cardinal nestlings. Well then, eat it. Rather a quick death than a slow one. Somehow it seems more humane. After she swallows it down, she hurries back to the same spot as if to look for more tasty treats. I put her inside the house and go to investigate.
Oh dear, oh dear there is another nestling lying on its back, its pale beak slowly opening and closing. Dying. Oh dear, oh dear. I gently scoop up its tiny, hairless, dark-pink body and place it back in the ramshackle nest just above. The nest is quite askew. The branch it sits on must have sprung when the cardinals started, tossing the nestlings to the ground. I look on the ground again: here is another on its belly--still, neck bent, but it might be alive. I gently return this one to the nest as well and hope.
Excited, agitated, the female returns, peeping repeatedly. She hops to the ground where she knows the nestlings were and seems somewhat distressed that she can't find them. Expanding her search, she hops up to the branch that holds the nest. She looks, she looks, she discovers the nestlings. She looks, she looks, peeping but she does not enter the nest. She flies away. I hold on to hope.
The bold, red male discovers the nestlings in the nest. I think he will perhaps convince the female to settle down into the nest but he flies away as well.
The nest lies open to the rain that begins to fall. I imagine the tiny pale beak opening, closing, opening, closing. The little heart beat clinging to this minute fluff of life. Time passes. They will die.
Somehow, by startling the cardinal, I have disturbed the rhythm of their cycle. The chain of behavior has been disrupted and though the mates still recognize these bits of life as significant and a loss they cannot undo the rent that has been torn into the pattern of their lives.
Within a short series of flukes, their creation has become stranger. Instinct has been irrevocably interrupted. The line broken. There is no going back and undoing. The nestlings will die. Pale beak opening and closing slowly more slowly then stopped.
The cardinals fly off and the air is silent of their cries.
A short time later I see the male breaking off a dry twig from a tree. To build a nest. To begin as if it were the first beginning. Hopefully uninterrupted this time.
Mating is all they know to do. Some seeds for you, my sweet.
Young male squirrels gambol and play and practice at mating with each other. The doves have long been clarion calling relentlessly.
It's all they know to do.
3/30/2001
Ingrid Karklins