The wren I pulled from the cat's mouth last week clipped wing, off-kilter is pecking a portly worm from a pot of sad soil I left on the garden table. We have an understanding a mutual admiration, reverence even having towed each other from our respective jaws.
Such a wingspan on a tiny bird, capable of pretty much anything. We've gone up walls, cowered beneath dirty old bonnets, and sunk into the fog where no one can find us. We'd go find each other mid-job, drop everything just because one of us felt like it at the time.
I'd hear a peck on the window, Wren'd hear the backdoor sliding and glide inside. No more scarpering now, time to saunter, time to nest in my hand, in my hair pick fleas from my thoughts, worms from my handy work at a time when I wished I could but could not regard le ciel.
Like a demon I had been, trying and trying and trying But I could not, I could not. My therapist just shrugged didn't ever probe anymore, and my friends' eyes glazed over. You hide my hand inside yours as we watch Wren soar and dive, soar and dive and nestle all the while.
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