The handsome fellow steps onto my deck, decked out in fine finery including white-collared shirt, tweed-tailored coat, and long feathered tail.  I've become familiar with the red pirate patches highlighting each of his curious eyes.  Perhaps too much wine last night.  How curious.  They don't blink.
I pour a second cup of coffee and, from my kitchen window, continue to watch the bold and brave bird.  About three weeks ago he invited himself into my life and he doesn't leave.  I don't mind.  He's an innocent diversion and his squawk is harmless.
The fancy one doesn't see me watching him.  He doesn't see me snapping photos of him.  Several times each morning he struts up to the large patio door, looks for his reflection in the pane, and pecks at himself.  Since it has  become a daily ritual I no longer "jump" when I hear his beak beating loudly on the glass.  The birdbrain is simply fascinated by his own image.  And I am fascinated by his fascination. 
Click. Click.
Another ritual occurs in the evenings here on Lilac Lane when several deer promenade past our living room windows just before supper time.  I suppose they are not afraid of me for the same reason that the pheasant is not shy.  They don't see me.  They only see their own reflection in the large windows, as well as the reflection of the trees and sky and flying squirrels.  There is nothing to frighten them away from my gaze and digital camera.  Is there anything more dear that large deer eyes?
Click.  Click.
Scarlet red of the crested cardinal also beckons for my attention and expands the physical walls of home for me.  How he loves the birdfeeder that I got from the Kraemer Kid for Christmas.  Thank you, Kathy.  Allan hung it up immediately and filled it with a delicious mixture from Nature's Bounty.  I seem to get the best end of the deal through daytime bird-watching.
Click.  Click.
Even when the cardinal hears my voice as I talk on the phone, with the kitchen window wide open, the captivating creature does not flit away from his meal at my house.
Click.  Click.
Sassy squirrels have not figured out how to steal from the cardinals.  Scampering from tree to rooftop and deck railing, they cannot reach the feeder.  The little idiots could just as well give up and go home.  Oops.  They are already home.  They've lived in these trees long before the Orsens moved here.
Some of our big gray squirrels have a vivid red stripe across their backs, in the longitudinal direction from head to tail.  I never see a gray stripe on the red squirrel.  Which is dominant -- the color red or the red squirrel?
Click.  Click.
Another flash of red catches my eye at the wood pile while I'm talking to my mother on the phone, and I tell her the pheasant has come to visit me again.  But from my upstairs window I see it's not the handsome rooster after all.  It's a pileated woodpecker. 
This particular bird is not such a frequent visitor to Lilac Lane, but I still recognize his large black and white body and bright red crown.  The fact that he continues to chip and chisel at the wood is another clue, of course, to his identity from a distance of thirty feet.  The first time I ever saw a pileated woodpecker was on the shore of Clearwater Lake at Annandale, at the home of Allan's Aunt Bernice.  I was astounded at its size, close up.
Click.  Click.
I've got another wild specimen to deal with here in my yard.  Allan wants to start a fire on the north side of our house where we lost all those trees in the storms of 1998.  He planted wildflowers that following spring and they've propagated quite nicely, thank you.  As with all the other wildlife, the array of colored petals expands our sense of home far beyond the four walls and, in this case, they provide pleasure and table centerpieces all summer long.
Click.  Click.
But a fire?  A fire that you start on purpose?  Allan tells me that burning the hillside will multiply the fruitfulness of the wildflowers.  I tell him that the wind and the weather and the woods are so unpredictable and I am afraid that a fire will get out of control. 
I don't need more wildflowers than we've already got.  I don't need more deer.  I don't need more cardinals.  I don't need more pheasants.  I don't need more pileated woodpeckers.  I'm happy just the way things are.  I'm happy with every living thing.  Don't light a fire, Allan! 
When I get back from picking up the mail in town, I smell smoke.  The fire has been lit.  Allan called the Victoria Fire Chief and got a permit.  There is no wind.  The flames are slow and small.  He's on top of things, and I look at him and the crawling path of fire through my large windows onto the outside world, but I don't let him see me.  He's probably not even looking to see me.  I'm upset.  Probably more afraid than angry.  I don't like fires except in a fireplace or a campsite.  I don't breathe easily until the project is completed and there is no evidence of smoldering.  I don't get my camera for this scene, but I'll take it out again this summer when the wildflowers have multiplied just as Allan said they would. 
And when I get all finished with the marvelous season of living color on Lilac Lane, I'll create a magnificent page on my website for you and me and the deep blue sea. 
Click.  Click.   --Sue