I have this wise little male Cardinal living in my yard who calls out to The Creator throughout the day. Sometimes, he just calls our His Name, “Creator! Creator! Creator!,” and other times, he also throws in the strong command to Create!”Creator, Creator, Creator, Creator! Create!”
Once in awhile, the “Create” on the end of the string of names, sounds like a question as it inflects upward at the end of the sentence. He has a clear and vibrant, no-nonsense voice.
His dowdy little brown wife sings another version very fast and with an accent. Her song sounds like “Creeder, creeder, creeder.” I’ve never heard her add the “Create!” to the end of her sentences.
For months, I simply enjoyed hearing him singing his prayers in the oak trees in my yard, but one day, I surprised us both by answering with my own copy of his call. I could hear him stop to take stock of this new bird in the yard. Then, he began to throw his math at me by increasing the number of times he repeated the word Creator, varying it between one and five repetitions. I would copy his string, exactly.
Then, he changed to the Spanish Cardinal language: “Creat-TOR!” with that little tongue-twirl on the last syllable.
I enjoyed the idea that our two species were communicating. We usually had long conversations this way.
But, it is springtime, and perhaps my fine-feathered friend was simply uttering up his mating prayer asking for the ability to create many new little Cardinals. Perhaps he didn’t welcome the idea of another singer in his yard, sounding like a male in tone and verse.
I believe that this might be the case because the side mirrors on both of our vehicles soon became the subject of much attack. Now I’ve had to cover them with plastic bags and rubber bands to prevent the inevitable white bird droppings down the side of the doors and the evidence of wing smudges on the windows, as he tries vainly to get a toehold at the base of the mirrors in order to attack this beautiful red rival.
He tends to bash his beak on any sort of reflection of himself, whether it is a patio door or a shiny mirror left outside. So, I think I must leave off this thought of literal communion with nature and let him have his little wife all to himself. Maybe if I start saying “Creeder, creeder, creeder!” he wouldn’t be so upset.
But, she would!