Sitting on my friend’s porch
next to the woods
bedecked in their finest
summer greenery,
she tells me how the wren
sings throughout the day,
that penetrating invitation
filled with longing and hope
of luring a mate.
My friend goes indoors
to prepare our tea
while I remain enthralled
with the summer’s energy,
the life I sense in the woods.
it happened so effortlessly,
the little brown bird flying
between black metal spokes
on the porch, flying straight
to my sandaled foot,
landing like a gentle breeze,
sprightly, briefly looking up at me,
seeming like a smile of “hello,”
then leaving like a soft leaf,
as if to say, “There now,
I wanted to visit you.”
In the brief time my mind
could send the message:
“there’s a wren on my foot,”
the little bird flew away.
Now what was that about?
