There’s a wren on the woodpile,
Sitting atop the stacked firewood
As if it were a private stage
Built just for his performance.
He struts with tail up and head
Flung back, brimming confidence
As he fills the sun-dappled yard
With loud and boisterous song.
Such a small thing, a wren.
No bigger than a minute, my
Mother liked to say. Yet his
Voice takes over the landscape.
The notes are sweet and clear,
Rounded and gleaming as pearls,
A bold arietta of liquid sound
That rings into the quiet morning.
The question I have is this—
Where does he find such joy?
Does some holy wellspring within
Flood his tiny heart with jubilation?
I yearn to feel that power in me,
To be so stirred with gladness
That shadows give way to singing,
And listening becomes exultation.
