First it flies to a side rail. Then a fern.
Then a fern, like a fountain, spilling out.
Can a curse be said to be song? Can it?
How can such a quick thing, tail tipped up, brown
as a bun, on wings too busy to see,
be so badly named? Troglodytidae.
The term circles back to us—cave dweller,
brute recluse. Though a wren's beak curves, like a
scimitar, this one just wants its porch back.
Now it’s vanished down our hollow eave spout,
from whose depths returns—
says the book—a loud
and often complex song. No, it is a curse.
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