13
BIRD-WATCHING
SKYLAR
I shouldn’t have a thing for apex predators, being a vegetarian and all. Still, there is just something about predatory birds that is so cool.
It’s terrible of me to admire them.
Truly, it is.
But as I’m futzing around the kitchen a couple days later, fighting off a yawn while trying to crush my brother in Wordle—news flash: I’m not even close to beating his solve-it-in-three-tries average—a faint chirp floats through the open window.
Is that…my great blue heron love?
I race across the house in my fuzzyBees Are Coolsocks, complete with no-slip grips, to the front of the home, where I hunt for my opera glasses in the pile of paperbacks I keep meaning to give to my friends.
I hightail it back to the kitchen, past a curious Simon, who lifts his snout from his dog bed, then stretches and pads behind me.
While slinging the opera glasses around my neck, Imake it to the mudroom window as a chirp drifts past my ears again.
Hmm. That’s not quite a squawk. But maybe herons chirp before they squawk? “Cleo, is there a great blue heron out there?”
But she says nothing. She simply sits imperiously in the corner, white paws crossed, gaze fixed on the live oak.
Well then.
If I’m going to become an amateur bird-watcher, no time like the present.
I swear I won’t even look at the neighbor’s home. I’ll keep my focus firmly fixed on…the birds. That’s what a new birder does.
I hoist myself over the windowsill, scanning the yard.
There’s a mock orange tree in one corner, a red maple near the other, a California fuchsia in the middle…and is that a pack of hummingbirds in the fuchsia? Those birds are so tiny, it really is a good thing I have these opera glasses to check them out. But I should get closer, especially since someone is definitely chirping again.
With my blue jammies on today, I shimmy along the shelf, sliding closer and closer still to Cleo, while an annoying voice talks back in my head.
You’re trying to spy on your hot neighbor.
Sheesh. My inner voice is super judgy. I try to reassure the voice that I won’t look at Ford’s porch. I really won’t look to the east. I slink along on my belly, then bring the glasses to my eyes.
Whoa. Everything’s blurry. It’s all green fuzz. I adjust the opera glasses, focusing intensely on the California fuchsia. They’re known for hummingbirds, I think. And look at all of them. Just look at them. Just look at…
That tanned skin. The smattering of golden chest hair. And that…is that…an eight-pack?
Five, six, seven…Oh god. Eight. And that treasure trail that leads right into…
Stop!
The man is simply saluting the sun, and I am salaciously, shamelessly…
Oh, is that a prayer twist now? Well, I am praying he holds this pose as I stare without intermission at those bare, toned, and muscular arms. Those sturdy shoulders, rippling and, I bet, firm to the touch.
Those strong thighs, looking far too good in those yellow shorts.
Ugh. My stomach twists. After he shared about his lucky color the other night, his all-female management team, and his focus and dedication, I should not be staring at his, well, focus and dedication. But my god, just look at his biceps.
The left one is Focus, the right one, Dedication.
