A flick of the tiny up-tilted head before she hollers
her best good night into the evening sky. From her
leafy perspective high above, under the curve of
the world's ceiling, I must seem as insignificant
to her as she is miniscule to me. She doesn't give me
a glance, this rackety bird, unobtrusive in
her smooth dun-colour, its underlay of peach
when the light is right; compact, no bigger than
a deer mouse, with a voice as persistent and scrappy
as a terrier. She shows up every May,
occupies the wren house, sweet, brave, hilarious,
closer to my heart than I have understood —
hatches babies, scolds, protects. Then exits.
One morning, just before dawn, I catch her poking
around the deck. Small. Quiet. Oblivious.
Sometimes, in a piece by Mozart, you can hear
a perfectly measured, exquisite run of slow true
notes. They come to me, from time to time,
like prayer, like heartbreak, like a tough little
wren on a deck in the woods by herself.
