They say a child might grow up to be an artist
if his sandcastle means nothing
until he leads his mother over for a look.
I’m that way with my wife.
Little things don’t mean much
until I report back from the front.
I ran into Rick from the gift shop.
The post office flag is at half-mast.
I counted the cars on a freight train.
Who else in the world would put up
with such froth before it dissolves in the surf?
But early this morning
while I was alone in the pool,
a Vatican-red cardinal flashed down
from the big magnolia
and landed on the deck
right next to where I was standing in the water.
Here was an event worth mentioning,
but better, I considered, to keep this one to myself,
to make it a secret I alone would harbor and possess.
Then I went back to watching the bird
pecking now at the edge of the garden
with the usual swivel-headed wariness of a bird.
I was an unobserved observer
of this private moment,
with only my head above the water,
at very close range for man and bird,
considering my large head and lack of feathers.
A sudden rustling in that tall tree
revealed the grey-and-pink female,
the vigilant mate with whom he shared his life,
but I wouldn’t share that with my wife,
not while she buttered toast
or worked the Sunday crossword.
Indeed, I would take the two cardinals to my grave.
In a little while, she appeared on the porch
wearing a bright yellow robe
and carrying two steaming cups of coffee.
We talked about a few ordinary things
as couples do to pass the time.
She told me about her plan to paint her office
and about a party we missed,
and I told her how good the coffee was
and about the two cardinals,
the male pecking in the garden
the female flapping her wings above—
making sure not to leave anything out—
including my idea about keeping it a secret
and that really dumb thing about the grave.