From the archives: written in 2019, at our old house, though birds still exist at our new house For the last two years, a bird has made its nest under our front stoop. A cardinal, I think. The male flaps about the yard in his bright red plumage. The female, quiet and dull gray, sits upon her nest. Opening the front door is enough to scare her off the stoop and onto the upper branches of a tree. I’ve gotten used to the frantic fluttering of wings whenever I leave the house. At first, this bothered me. Some mother, I thought, who leaves her little chicks behind at the first sign of danger. That sounded like the simple logic of an animal. Survival at any cost. Better them than me. But the more I’ve thought about it—which is every time I leave or return home—the more I believe that bird knows what she is doing.