Cardinals

The weather has been gray and damp. It is January in America's Northeast. I live at the ocean's edge. I am surrounded by fresh and salt marsh, rare relics of the earlier terrain along this coastline adjacent to a major metropolis. Blue heron, redtail hawk, rabbit, even coyote live here too, along with possum, raccoon and feral cat. We all manage through Winter's gloom. The blue heron looks depressed. The redtail hawk flies with less vigor. I walk and observe. The tides are drastic between storms. Everything is brown, yellow and gray. And today, after passing a rather haughty urban-looking couple with a leashed Rottweiler, I turned into the nature path through the freshwater marsh near my house. I was thinking how readily I would surrender my lease to my place on this planet if I were given a decent offer. Then a male cardinal, glaringly scarlet in the failing evening light, flew across my path about ten feet ahead of me. I stopped short and was rewarded with the close view of his female companion, as she flew after him. My heart swelled. It suddenly seemed brighter, warmer, closer to Spring.