That old song, “Mr. Bluebird at my window…”, came to mind when I caught the real thing perched on a basket outside the living room window, where he occasionally hurls himself at his reflection. Each morning he and his intended mate zip around the garden, inspecting three bluebird houses, chasing warbling house wrens and catching bugs midair. Each time the male lands, he fluffs up his body while his outstretched wings tremble. He’s just flexing his biceps for all those interested females, including me.

— Nina Koziol