The first few months after I began putting the seeds out, there was a gimpy-legged male cardinal who would come and feed. He hopped around on his good leg, peeping happily, as though he was proud to have found himself in such luxurious accommodations. I saw him almost every day right at sunrise – really I heard him, and rose from my bed to greet the day and my little red bird. Cardinals don’t flock and the male of the species is extremely territorial, so this little one would have had a hard time securing his own space against bigger, stronger males. Last year, he and his mate stopped coming; perhaps they were ousted by the rather large male that began attending our outdoor breakfasts. This one was big, bold red, and quite prideful in his raised crest and loud calls. We began calling him Mr. Incredible, and he took turns on the ledge with his mate (Elasti-girl, of course), a beautiful rouge-tipped beige brown lady cardinal. They began to visit several times a day and built a nest nearby, with good results: their fledgling now visits to partake of the free bounty. He is still growing his red feathers and crest, but seems much more comfortable with the eating arrangement then his parents did; not so easily startled from his perch when I come to the window to admire him.

The blue jays have also produced an heir who claims the sunflower seeds as his own; jays are about twice the size of cardinals and twice as loud; their feeding habits differ too. Usually they dive down, quickly grab a seed, and take it away to the nearby tree to crack the hull by hitting it against a branch. This young one, however, comes and sits on the ledge like the cardinals. Even though he is still small for a jay, he’s a giant next to the baby cardinal (should we call him Dash?). This morning, by chance they both choose the same moment to fly down. I hear the peep, peep of Dash and the trilling call of the young jay together and skip to the window to take a look. Peering through the cracks of the closed blinds, to my delight I see the two youngsters there together. Both seem surprised to see the other, and neither takes notice of my nose poking through the slats. For two full seconds of bated-breath silence they regard each other before the jay takes a hop toward the cardinal, and that smaller one flits away, peeping. Dash was only gone for a few seconds, though, before he appeared again with admonitory peeps and seed-nibbling next to his giant neighbor. Usually a male cardinal will brook no interference from another bird of any species, so this was an interesting morning for all three of us.

Today is a good bird watching day. It’s been raining here in humid Florida, and the outside of the glass is covered with a thin layer of condensation; enough to keep the birds from seeing me, but not enough to keep me from seeing them. I open the blinds with impunity to enjoy the presence of several tiny carolina chickadees. These little black hatted ones make the cardinals look behemoth; but I can see my chickadees coming from across the yard, practically floating on the tufts of wind like big black and white butterflies. They look exactly like their cousins, the black-capped chickadees, but their call, with four distinct notes instead of the black-capped’s two, gives them away. It is said that even they cannot tell each other apart – and it is also said that the hybrid young of the black-capped and the Carolina chickadees sound a call with three notes. This is a math lesson that I cannot resist; I listen to each one and count.

The most conversational song belongs to the house finches who always come in groups of two or three to chat and sing together while nibbling on black seeds. The flash of their reddish-purple heads belies the dull gray of the rest of their little bodies, but their sweet melody-making makes up for any deficiency in looks. They seem to come in shifts; some weeks they visit often; several times a day each day, and then we don’t see them for a week or two. “I’m in the mood for black sunflower seeds this week, dear,” they must say. “Do let’s go feed at the window ledge today and have a chat.”

I’m selfish with “my” birds; sometimes the children ask if they can also put seeds on their window ledge. No, is my kind but quick response. I don’t want to give the birds any reason to stop perching at my window, not even a little bit. These are mine; my own private pleasure; my little birds that bring me joy even on the days when I have procrastinated on my latest writing assignment and will have to keep my head down, typing all day. Except when they come; I look up when I hear their songs, and I see them and smile.