The Wren

A poem

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.