The cardinals arrive first, as a couple,shortly after the snow stopsfalling. The female with her faded orangebeak stays back, perched on a branch of a young apple tree in the yard where a hairy woodpecker has knocked holesin the bark. The bolder male moves incloser despite sudden unwanted company: a wild flurry of chickadee wings,and pushy tufted titmice who prefertheir feast foraged straight from the feeder.The larger cardinal likes his sunflower seeds scattered across the ground where his scarlet cape stands outagainst the white. My wife obliges,always spreading extra seedwishing for a glimpse of those wingsspread like a swath of blood on snow.Snow which covers — like love,or like mulch in spring — a multitude of sins.