The cardinal has perched on our fence post, cocking his head as if to take the measure of this new site. The click of his claws on the wooden platform can be heard as he twists his body around too.

Then this splendid bird hops down the walk leading to our front porch before stopping to admire our minimal garden. Apparently, no worms or other delicacies are at beak, so he soon flies back to a branch on the other side of our small street.

There he can resume the call that so characterizes his stay in the neighborhood. Almost every spring and summer morning has begun with his distinctive song, a signal that he is very much there.

This call begins with two piercing whistles and then, in rapid succession, come ten other short bursts, almost too fast to count. The bird then repeats this formula over and over so long as he remains on one perch.

How he gets such volume and resonance from his narrow throat amazes me. Apparently this bird has taken seriously the standard advice of voice teachers, who will tell you to use your diaphragm to unlock the power of your speaking and singing potential. As one who has failed to internalize this advice, I stand in envy of what the cardinal achieves over and over.

What made his foray on to our walkway notable was its uniqueness. Never before, in my experience, had this bird, or any other members of the cardinal family, ventured to come so close to humanity. I was sitting on our small front porch all the while, enjoying this unprecedented opportunity to observe him up close.

Of course, the brilliance of his plumage was his most striking feature. That red, so resplendent and magnetic to the onlooker, fascinates me at every sighting. From my own perch on the porch, I gazed on this cardinal while wondering what life for him feels like to him.

What must it be to outshine in brilliance almost all others of his ilk? The cardinal makes the other neighborhood birds seem awfully dull. How can they tolerate being so dominated in color?

Perhaps those of us who are ecclesiastically involved can judge by encounters with cardinals of the church. You may  think it foolish to walk around swathed in red robes or, alternatively, you can perhaps envy those who look so much more splendid rather than the rest of us.

But back to our bird. Long ago I learned that what most animals do most of the time is think about how to get food. A daily existence that looks glamorous to us, flying around the place at will and singing their hearts out, is most likely not romantic but highly pragmatic. They have mouths to feed, their own and others’, and they have to stay in contact with family members.

And those songs they sing, though pleasing to us, are probably not a matter of pleasure to them. Instead, like an ambitious human soprano or tenor who is trying to make the big time, birds are undoubtedly singing out of need rather than fun.

But I prefer to focus on their beauty and grace. To me, their inner lives are material for fantasy and contemplation.

The cardinal who approached me seemed to be striking up a friendship. Tentatively, he was trying out what it might be like to spend time near a human being. Without the security of the high wire and the tree branches on which he had been resting, he was now exploring new territory.

Though I regard myself as rather reliable, the cardinal had no assurance of that fact. He was taking a chance on this one human that I would welcome his foray into my territory. His silence during this adventure counts as a clear sign of his inner anxiety. That was not a situation that merited music.

My hope is that he will make a habit out of visiting our yard. If we can convince him of a safe and welcoming reception every time he comes, the visit could become a neighborhood amenity.

Yes, I want to see and hear him perched high on our telephone wires and amid the branches of our tall trees. But I crave more frequent intimacy with this dazzling creature of the skies. Is a close personal relationship in our future?

Today, I don’t hear my favorite bird. Perhaps he has gone in search of a more lively neighborhood than ours. But I don’t believe he will forsake us for long. He must know by now how much he assures us of the lasting beauty of the world despite the damages constantly inflicted on it.

Ah, the simple pleasures of an aging guy who loves sitting on his porch while persisting in contemplating the world and its wonders, especially when those wonders come to his doorstep.

Richard Griffin