This has been one of the most fulfilling summers I’ve had in a long time. Whenever I have a free minute, I slip into our silly above-ground pool and float on a shiny pink plastic raft, book in hand. Lately, that book has been “World of Wonders: In Praise of Fireflies, Whale Sharks, and Other Astonishments” by Aimee Nezhukumatathil.
It reminds me of a few of my longtime favorites: Aldo Leopold’s “A Sand County Almanac” and Annie Dillard’s “Pilgrim at Tinker Creek.” But “World of Wonders” offers something unique: the way Aimee weaves her lived experience into scientific portraits of plants and animals. For example, the red-spotted newt’s ability to return to its breeding pond — even after being displaced — mirrors how she, like me, moved often as a child but never lost her internal compass. Her way of aligning nature with memories and biology with belonging stuck with me.
So, in the spirit of Aimee, I’m trying my hand at a bit of nature writing. Not because I think I’ll come anywhere close to the beauty of her book, but because, tucked into the end of it, she offers permission via a list of writing prompts. Gentle nudges. And I realized that if I wait for someone else to tell me I’m allowed to try this, I’ll be waiting forever.
The Northern Cardinal (Cardinalis cardinalis)
On September 26, 2020, according to the irrefutable testimony of my Amazon order history, I dropped $115 on a squirrel-proof bird feeder. It was a peak-pandemic impulse buy, an attempt to inject some awe into our lives. Hunter green, six feeding ports, mounted on a pole. Since then, that feeder has transformed our window into a living nature documentary, complete with titmice, chickadees, woodpeckers, and finches.
But the undisputed star of the show is the cardinal. (Northern cardinal, technically. Their range spans most of the eastern and central U.S., Mexico, and parts of Central America, in case you were wondering.)
Here in Central Florida, cardinals lay eggs between February and September, so it’s not unusual to see some shiny new faces in line to snap up some bird seed. Young male cardinals are such a vibrant red they stop you mid-step — a fire in the trees. It fades with age — never quite as brilliant again — but for a while, it’s dazzling.
Even the juvenile females are a sight to see, with pale brown, spunky mohawks and feathers tipped in burnt orange. All their feathers are smooth and full. I love watching the parents teach the youngsters how to forage from the feeder.
If you’re unsure who’s who, here’s a tip: adult males and females both have bright red-orange beaks, while juveniles start with dark gray bills that gradually shift from pink to orange as they grow up.
By mid-to-late summer, as the frenzy of fledglings settles down, I’m often taken aback by the sight of a seemingly busted-up mother bird. Around July or August, she appears — bald, disheveled, exhausted. As the mother of my own vibrant, energetic daughter, “My first thought is one of solidarity: “See? That mother is tired, too.”
But, as I learned, she’s not falling apart. She’s just molting.
After the breeding season ends, cardinals shed and regrow feathers — a physically demanding process that manifests as tiredness in their eyes. Their new feathers will come in before winter, offering better insulation and improved flight. It’s no wonder they look worn out — raising a brood and rebuilding a body is no small thing.
There’s a lesson in that, I think. Maybe it’s a quiet encouragement to take some time out. To shed. To renew. Or perhaps just to drift awhile on a pink raft in a sun-warmed pool, book in hand.
And then there’s this — a hopeful note that caught me by surprise.
According to the University of Florida’s IFAS Extension, “very few female North American songbirds actually sing. The Northern cardinal is one of those singers. They often sing while sitting on their nest — it’s not often that wild animals resemble their cartoon depictions, but for female cardinals, fiction matches the truth.”
What a thing, to be battle-worn and bald-headed and still have the strength to sing.