A Tale of Views and Values
A Cardinal and a Crow both sought a home in the great city of Durham. They arrived in the Bull City that autumn, attracted by job opportunities, a vibrant culture, and the energy of a city transforming itself. But they had very different ideas about what made a home worth having.
The Crow, proud of his smartness, built a nest at the top of a concrete high-rise in downtown. It was the tallest building for miles, and his unit sat at its apex. He proudly told anyone nearby, “From here, I can see everything — the whole Triangle laid out like a map!” Raleigh to the east, Chapel Hill to the west, and all of Durham at my feet.”
His friends were suitably impressed. They visited once, marveled at the panorama, posted photographs to their social feeds, and never returned. The elevator ride was too long. The wind at that height was too fierce. And the Crow, truth be told, had nowhere comfortable for them to sit.
The Cardinal, more modest in her ways, had taken her time. She explored many neighborhoods before settling into a charming home on Roxboro Street, which featured multiple balconies that hugged the building. It may not have been the tallest building, but it certainly left a lasting impression. It may not have been the most renowned address. Something about it felt right—the morning light in the bedroom, the evening breeze in the living room, and the ability to step outside from nearly any room and breathe freely.
Her neighbors found her decision intriguing. “Why settle for less when you could have the best view in the city?” asked a Blue Jay eyeing the same high-rise as the Crow.
“Height isn’t the only measure of a view,” the Cardinal replied, but she didn’t elaborate. She had learned that some truths couldn’t be explained—only experienced.
One spring morning, the Crow visited the Cardinal, driven by curiosity and a bit of gloating. He expected to find her cramped and regretful, peering out of some small window at a sliver of sky.
He found her on the eastern balcony, in a soft robe, sipping coffee while the sunrise painted Durham’s rooftops in gold and rose. The downtown skyline glowed before her—not beneath her, but before her, intimate and alive. He could hear birds singing in the Cleveland-Holloway trees. He could smell something blooming.
“Your view is… different than I expected,” the Crow admitted, accepting a cup of coffee.
“This is my morning view,” the Cardinal said. “Would you like to see my afternoon view? Or my evening view? I have several.”
She guided him through her thoughtfully designed home to a second balcony off her study, facing a different direction. Here the perspective shifted: a quiet street below, mature trees, historic homes that had stood for a century.
“When I need to think,” she explained, “I come here. The tranquility enhances my concentration. When I need energy, I return to the city view. When I have friends over, we gather on the main balcony and watch Durham come alive below us. Each space has its purpose. Each view has its mood.”
The Crow contemplated his solitary, elevated perch—it’s certainly impressive, yet it provides a narrow, unyielding viewpoint. When he wanted variety, he had to leave his home entirely. When guests visited, they crowded onto the same narrow space, fighting the wind.
“Can you see the sunrise from your bedroom while still half-asleep?” the Cardinal asked softly, aiming to enlighten, not hurt. “Can you step outside from your study to clear your head in the middle of a difficult project? Can you host friends on one balcony while the evening breeze cools another?”
The Crow had no answer.
As the seasons turned, the Cardinal’s wisdom became clearer to all who knew them both. In summer, she enjoyed meals on her shaded western balcony, while the Crow suffered in the heat on his bare concrete ledge. In autumn, she enjoyed the golden Cleveland-Holloway oaks from her private sanctuary, while he viewed only distant colors—beautiful but impersonal, like a photo rather than a real experience.
In winter, the city lights danced across the Cardinal’s wrap-around views, each angle offering a different facet of Durham’s charm. She hosted a cozy holiday gathering that flowed from the balcony to the living room and back, with her guests enjoying the twinkling city lights around them. The Crow sat alone in his high tower, watching the same lights from above, wondering why they seemed so much colder from up there.
By spring, when the Cardinal invited him to see the dogwoods bloom from her favorite spot, the Crow began to understand. He had chased the tallest nest without asking what he would do once he reached it. He had optimized for one metric—height—and sacrificed everything else.
“I thought being above it all would make me happy,” he confessed.
“Being above it all,” the Cardinal replied kindly, “often just means being apart from it all.”
Moral: A home with many perspectives offers more than one with a single point of view.