Its crimson robe stands out among the stark branches of the old apple tree. All around, the earth rests in shades of gray and brown, its winter dormancy visible to those who take time to see. Beneath the glistening, frosted ground and deep within the barren branches, life flows. Never ceases.

The cardinal nestled in the old apple tree must surely know this, therefore it can rest contented in the bitter cold of a mountain winter. And so its song comes easy, even in the frigid air.

I know another clothed in a crimson robe, a robe of suffering stained with blood.