Masked Native

 

A wren came to my house.

Shocked to be there, 

on the floor, 

by my working desk.

For a fleeting moment

we were aware, 

wren and I,

and then it flew.

 

I found it by my bed,

not a mark on the glass 

of the garden door.

My little wren, so still, 

stunned perhaps I hoped,

waiting for a sign,

for tiny wings to flutter

and fly, but wren was gone.

 

In cupped hands,

I held it’s delicate press

of wings and flesh, and

placed it in the empty nesting box,

above the hedge,

a more familiar place for Wren.