I was buried in pillows and blankets on a couch in a corner of the bedroom, absorbed in the soft light emitting from my laptop. I’d been clicking away for at least an hour, oblivious to the sky’s transitioning from ink black to early morning purplish gray. I might’ve kept typing in oblivion well past full light were it not for a scratching sound. It was so faint that I first doubted my ears, but I stopped pressing keys to listen.

There it was again, oddly familiar and yet unexpected. I listened a moment longer, trying to make sense of the patter. It sounded like a twig scratching against glass, but there were no plants against the building. I twisted in my cocoon of blankets to view the window behind me. I saw motion out of the corner of my eye and repositioned for a better look. There, just above my shoulder, balanced the source of my sound. A male cardinal fluttered its wings to keep its footing on the steep and narrow sill as it tapped the window with its beak.

I watched the cardinal in confusion. I’d never seen a bird perched there before, and it certainly didn’t look comfortable. Perhaps the sudden interest in this window had to do with the fact that I’d adhered anti-bird collision decals to the panes earlier in the week to stop a disheartening rash of hits by migrating birds unfamiliar with my yard. But this made little sense. The decals were designed to deter birds, not attract them. And it was still so dark, could the decals even be noticed in this lighting?

The cardinal hopped up and pecked the glass again, then again. After each tap, it turned its head toward the west corner of the house – the corner where a tray feeder was to a balcony railing. Could this little cardinal be telling me it was time to fill the feeder? It seemed unlikely. As if reading my mind though, the cardinal tapped the glass one more time and then flew west.

I sat there a moment, weighing the possibilities that this bird intentionally sought my attention. Could it be that this cardinal had noticed the glow from my laptop and understood it meant a person, a potential source of food, was there? Was it truly tapping to tell me that it wanted sunflower seeds? The chances seemed minimal, but how could I say no?

I threw off my covers and walked to the next window, where the seeds sat on top of a dresser. As I reached for the container, the cardinal landed on the sill before me. It balanced awkwardly and tapped on the glass. And then, once again, it flew west.

Sunflower seeds in hand, I turned toward the sliding door that opened to the balcony where the tray feeder awaited. The cardinal landed on the edge of the tray. It lowered its head and tossed empty sunflower husks about. It stopped and looked in my direction, then flew to a nearby tree and watched.

Point taken. I scattered the seeds on the tray and left my friend to his feast.