This morning I had a long conversation with
a winter wren. I’m not sure what passed
between us, exactly, only that
something did. Something that
left me feeling
and definitely delighted.
All afternoon I considered this,
and wondered why such a secretive
little bird would call me out for a chat,
which, clearly, she did, kit-kittering loudly
all around me until, at last,
I called out “hello, Little One,” and
rose to find her in the undergrowth.
She did not startle and fly away
at my approach, but studied me
quite carefully as I spoke. Neither
was she injured, as she crept around under
the rocks and hopped among the
tangled thickets, a worm dangling
from her fine, sharp beak,
chittering all the while.
And now, night has fallen fully,
and the moon peers out
behind the clouds, and I—delighted
no closer to knowing
what, exactly, passed between me and
the winter wren.
This morning as I sit in my chair on the porch, my tea steaming and the grass wet with dew, the green garbage truck rumbles onto the street, brakes screeching in protest. Its claw-arm stretches from the side of its great underbelly, reaching and lifting each gray container, up and over; emptying. It makes its way around the circle of the court, upsetting the calm and scattering the house finches and robins convened in the street at the edge of my yard, raising a flutter of complaint. It lumbers away, completing its work– under two minutes, I’m sure–then turns the corner and is gone, though I hear faintly its lurching as it works the next street over.
It’s necessary, I know, this convenience of suburbia; and the finches soon return to the feeders I’ve filled with safflower and sunflower seeds, while chirping at me their sharp annoyance, with which I heartily agree.