First the scarlet cardinal,
the father, we peddle;
then the little poof
clambering aloof:
nestling,
who turns out
cardinal, the slightest
of crests atop his
peeping crown,
no red feathers yet,
just drabby down.
Then comes the squawk
as my daughter scoops
him from the nature walk.

Housed in a previous cage
piping hungry with rage,
more feathers tube out,
as he flits about:
fledgling
with tail sprout,
and chirps cracking songbird,
soon to be colored,
face blacked out.
Bird is the watchword
for turnabout
from net to nest:
will there be visits
or just question-mark reds?