The yard is quieter this morning,

as we sit on the porch eating eggs,

the little brown dogs and me.

Only the we-witchity of the yellowthroat

sporting a bandit’s mask

from the brushy riverbank.

And the red-eyed vireo chanting

something I refuse to call a song,

more a punctuated summer soundtrack.

Song sparrows wearing one large freckle

begin to sing, then give it up.

There are more mouths to feed.

What is missing from this

mid-July morning is wren.

Rasping antics of wren on the clothesline.

Wren on the railing, wren on the rusted yard art.

Wren everywhere in my dreams,

singing like a smoker.

I had words with him yesterday.

Be careful of the cars.

Don’t swoop so low.

Wrens never listen.

Brave, headstrong wrens.

He lay this morning in the south-bound lane.

His brown striped tail up.

His thin, insect stabbing beak broken.

One drop of blood.





2 thoughts on “Poem to a wren

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