I've taken to calling him Frankie -- as in Sinatra.
Frankie has everything. He's the most debonair house finch of them all. His red feathers put all the other guys' plumage to shame.
He's got the moves, too. Frankie's smooth on the perch with just a little clownishness to make him endearing.
But, oh, when he sings! He stretches out his neck, opens his beak and out comes a cascade of ringing trills that draws every female house finch within miles to our side yard. They hang off the birdfeeder; they perch in nearby trees; they adore him from the ground.
Sadly, his performance always outlasts his worshipers' stamina and they are off with other, less talented fellows.
He continues to sing long after they've left, in love with his own voice.