The cardinal in a snow-clad tree prances through the branches. With glossy eyes, all masked in black, he darts and dashes from side to side casting furtive glances. Perching himself on the slightest limb, he bobs up and down with the lightest wind, yet still he dances, with crest and chest ablaze in red, orange beak pointed straight ahead, and wings still wrapped in winter feathers, waiting to brighten with warmer weather . He shakes his head back and forth, looks south and east, testing his course, then with an ounce of force he lifts his wings to fly away, the lone splash of color in a sky so grey
There is always one phrase, one line, one word that stands out the most for me,
"an ounce of force"
In some ways the cardinal may be the canary in the coal mine. I remember as a young boy when cardinals signaled the spring. Now I can’t remember the last time the saw one in the wild,