The sun rises through ribbons of cloud, painting the morning in waves of color—first the pink of cherry blossoms, then crocus gold, before finally settling into the pure white light of day.
On the back patio, the dogwood draws my eye. Three pairs of cardinals rest in its budding branches. The males wear Ferrari-red feathers, while their mates don the browns and grays of the forest floor. The species’ signature red is reserved only for their beaks, like carefully applied lipstick.
This morning, they are still, but I remember another cardinal who shattered the peace of my valley home for nearly two years. I first heard him on an early spring dawn like this one—the sickening thud of a bird fatally striking a window, breaking its tiny neck. Then another. And another.
At my window, I found him—his crest raised like a battle flag as he faced his reflection. Wings spread wide, his beak clicking against glass, he hurled himself at his mirrored twin. Each attack met its perfect counter—an opponent made of nothing but reflected light and his own fierce fear.
His war followed the sun’s arc. Dawn found him at the bedroom window, locked in relentless combat with his phantom rival. As shadows shifted, he moved to the living room glass. The afternoon light drew him to the windows above the kitchen sink, startling anyone unlucky enough to be filling a tea kettle. His ever-patient mate often watched from the ground, foraging quietly for seeds and insects, her posture increasingly weary.
Ten, twenty times each day, he struck with bone-breaking force. His impacts echoed so loudly through the quiet house that callers would pause mid-sentence to ask if I was alright. Eventually, his beak and body left stubborn smudges on the glass. And, while other males abandoned their territorial disputes when the mating season ended, his battle raged on unceasing.
Dogwoods bloomed and bore bright berries.
Thud!
Mulberry trees grew heavy with dark fruit.
Thud!
Crickets leaped enticingly through summer grass.
Thud!
Hawks circled overhead.
Thud!
Snow fell.
Thud!
Juniper berries ripened to dusty blue as owls emerged in twilight.
Thud!
The nothing in the window consumed him, drawing all his fierce energy into endless combat.
Then, one day, silence returned.
I guided my wheelchair to each scarred window, expecting to find a still red form on the grass below. But no broken body lay there. Perhaps a hawk or watchful fox had claimed him in a moment of stunned vulnerability.
I prefer to think he finally saw through the illusion—that in some moment of grace, the glass became glass, the reflection merely light. That this scarlet Don Quixote turned away from his fear toward the brightening sky, his burden lifted, joining the dawn chorus.
Now, watching these peaceful cardinals in the dogwood, I wonder what they will see in the morning light. The sun climbs higher, and they simply sit, feathers warming, content to let light be light.