Morning window-light, cat perched sentinel, ears flicking at the robin’s sharp tut-tut-tut from the flag stake outside. She has claimed the yard as her kingdom for now. Her breast is bright as ember, feathers ruffled with purpose. Every step past the hedge, every tilt of the curtain, draws her vigilance. I imagine her heart beating faster than my own, a drumbeat of protection.

Later, I peek into the maple and find the reason: two tiny beaks stretching skyward, tufted crowns of down and pinfeathers, not yet ready to know the sky. The nest is a woven cradle of sticks and hope, a cradle that breathes with each soft tremor of chicks begging for more. Their eyes are half-closed, but their hunger burns awake.

The robin watches me watching, neither of us entirely trusting, but both bound to this moment. She sings less now, too busy with duty, worms plucked from the damp soil and delivered with tenderness disguised as efficiency. Fierce and tireless, a flame against the green world.

The cat sighs from the sill, thwarted hunter behind glass, while I feel the tug of seasons, how life unfurls in branches, how small voices become the loud chorus of summer. For now, the robin stands guard, and I stand witness.