A messenger of the world beyond ensconces on your window sill. The fluffy red crown of its bright feathers spurring waves of calmness, circulating in your blood.
You smile. You ponder opening up a window, but that would scare the red miracle away. The summers in DC are boiling, you know that keeping the stuffiness outside would be for the best.
You take a step closer, slightly tripping over your feet when slipping out of your warm sheets, eyelids still heavy from a sleepless night.
At least the good news is chirping on the out view.
The driveway was swarming with gravel and grit, cars no longer shuffling away from the dust off of the road. Even the wind hit the pause.
You could not see pass through the second house in a long alley of Victorian properties scallop-edged by the cherry blossom trees from both sides of the sidewalk, now devoid of its flowers. The fruits of the cherry blossom will have perished by far.
The gardener had not plucked the shrubs in two months, the swinging branches of oak trees dangling down on your window, shielding the sunny side room from heating up like a boiled egg.
Thirty seconds have passed, the striking red bird stubbornly playfully accommodating itself. The vibrant plumage wet from the last night´s rain.
You mulled over, pulling the lever and hauling the window open. The large raindrop molecules would probably still be present in the air, hovering on the sear leaves, lazily floating on the front porch.
You shift your gaze, the bird flapping his wings for takeoff.
As long as the Red Cardinal is here, our luck will never die out.
You lean on the sill, choking on the decision you are about to make. Does letting in a bit of fresh air justifies repelling the universal cardinal of angels?
Or maybe it´s just a silly superstition, an old wife´s tale.
You tilt your head to get a better look at the sky as if to ask permission from a higher power to let yourself breathe. You imagine how your skin would pleasantly crawl upon feeling a fresh breeze.
A flock of sparrows land on the electric wiring stretching across the street, nervously twitching.
The Red Cardinal takes account of them, shifting its delicate body, his prolonged feathery tail colliding with the tin rim he was prancing on.
If it flies away, the decision has been made, no damage sticker will be placed on the front lobe of this Tudor brick house.
A few of the sparrows descend down, exploring the grey pavement covered in yellowish pollen from the florid dandelions.
The state symbol of hope decides to stay. And you choose to take control in times when life is nothing but a random series of chaotic events. At least here, inside your home, you get to make the call about what to believe.
So you place your hands on the handles and pull the window open.
The Red Cardinal fearlessly facing you.
Our luck is (n)ever-changing.