It rained almost all day, and, for the most part, hard, so I spent most of the mandatory indoor time finishing a story about the biomechanics of accurate throwing. But while I was deeply ensconced in trying to explain complicated physics, I heard a surprising call just outside my window. The notes were wonderfully sweet and vaguely familiar, and they were coming from a bird that the Cornell Laboratory of Ornithology website described as sounding like an American Robin, "but listen for an extra sweetness, as if the bird had operatic training." I raced to the kitchen door to try to spot the critter and there, right in front of me at eye height in the Red Maple, was a pair of Rose-breasted Grosbeaks, male and female. I was pretty sure I'd heard them earlier in the month, but they tended to remain out of sight, high in the tree canopy, so luck had not been with me as a documentarian. Fortune was certainly with me right now. I ran to get my wife, and, while she eyed the pair, which turned out to be a trio—two males, one female—I grabbed my camera and changed lenses, hoping all the while that I wasn't too late to use the Sigma supertelephoto to good advantage. Fortune smiled again, as the Grosbeaks hung around long enough for portraits. Sometimes, this just happens, for which, praise be.