By Liz deBeer

Rob gropes around a family-sized bag of cheese puffs—empty. After scraping the foil for any last bits, he licks his salty fluorescent fingers. His puffs are gone. Worse, he reeks of his own sweaty scent despite barely moving in twenty-four hours while he binge-watched Netflix—just getting up to open the refrigerator or hit the bathroom. 

He’s aching from sitting, but he’s committed to embracing freedom after years of grinding— commuting to work, eating at his desk to answer emails, responding to calls from pain-in-the-ass customers. Finally retired, he can do what he wants every damn day. 

He clicks the television remote to The Weather Channel. Stretching out, he covers himself with a gray fleece blanket speckled with orange-cheese-puff dust, hoping the broadcasters’ rambling about cloud coverage will lull him so he can grab some shut-eye. Partially cloudy but weather change approaching.  

Eyelids closed, he starts to drift until a shrill “Whht, whht, whht, woooo” pricks his ears.

Rob shifts his position, pulls the blanket over his head, nods off. 

“Whht, whht, whht, woooo” shakes him awake again. He groans, rubs his eyes, and heaves himself off the sofa. As he slides the patio door across, squinting into the light, he wonders why the sound’s source is so unsettling.  

He steps out, barefooted, brushing neon orange flecks onto the decking. Hopping away from the crumbs, a red bird cocks his head and begins to dance, quivering each wing at Rob, one at a time, before wiggling his tail feathers. Finally, the cardinal turns around and flies a few feet to a prickly bush before trilling his song again: “Whht, whht, whht, woooo.” 

Fully awake now, Rob grasps the patio railing to follow, the dewy grass tickling his uncovered feet. 

The cardinal croons as Rob inspects the bramble: thorny branches with red clusters—wild raspberries? As if to reassure him, the bird pecks at the bright spongy fruit. Rob considers, then pops a warm berry into his mouth: Tastes like sunshine. Not that he’d know—his life was more like…What? Haze? Sun rarely even winked at his old office cubicle. 

Smacking his lips, he stares at the cardinal, regal in a crimson cape and crown. He yawns, remembers his interrupted nap, and retreats to the house.

Back on his couch, the TV screen flicks through images of a car accident, a wildfire, airplane delays. Then old sitcoms, rom-coms, an acclaimed international film. Rob licks his lips, savoring the raspberry sweetness.  He turns his gaze to the sliding door, contemplating the cardinal, the raspberries, the sunshine.

What the hell’m I doin’? he thinks, as he presses the power button, silencing the TV’s mechanical chatter. Bird’s brain’s probably the size of a raisin, but he’s got a point.

Pushing reading glasses over his nose, he types: How intelligent are cardinals? 

Google reports: Birds are capable of cognitive tasks similar to primates. Birds’ brains are akin to mammals… 

He looks up, thinking: Maybe I should listen to that dancin’ bird. He types in his cell phone again, searching for basic info about raspberry bushes. His eyes stop at a section on how to fertilize with spent coffee grounds.

Coffee waste as fertilizer? A new purpose for a castoff? His heart pounding, he pictures himself outside, composting raspberry bushes. 

Should I? he wonders. 

As if to respond, the cardinal’s call penetrates the closed door. Rob cocks his own head, just as the cardinal had earlier. He withdraws the morning’s used coffee filter, retraces his steps, and dumps the sable-colored grounds on the raspberry bush’s base. Sinking to his knees to work the nitrogen-infused residue into the soil with a stick, Rob purses his lips to whistle, hoping the cardinal responds with approval.