from The Wren Notebook (entry #77)

Wren is at it.
Flying into storm clouds
banging into window panes
into hard branches and hard sky,
crazy and hurt and cold.
A wren hopping on one leg
as something closes in.
Frantic wings pivot in little circles
as she tries to lift off
from the ground
she’s never trusted.
Limited vision, limited range,
delirious.

There’s a crust of black bread
in the snow.
It’s almost as if
she has a future.

If she could just
sleep silent through
till Spring.


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