Based on Irish myth & Mayan and Cherokee legend.
Again he woke me. That mocking bird on the telephone line outside my
window. His selection is long, one mimicked song, another, another.
Phrases in echo of our local orchestra — of robin, cardinal, titmouse, wren.
He is proud of his singing, proud his song collection is best.
Better than a wren? Perhaps he has not met the round, earth-brown small,
low-flying wren in my garden. The wren has hundreds of personal songs,
personal tweets, and twitters. None are copied. The wren is
humble
unassuming
fruit of earth.
And we have heard legends, heard truths – that wren is king of birds.
Imagine an eagle rise in sky to show how high it can fly. Know, though, the
wren is hidden in its wing. Listen now to a sudden twitter, listen to a high
trill brag from the wren — it flies higher, and is cleverer than any eagle.
And we know more legend, that a wren flies low, hides in a mouse hole
away from owl hunger. At sunrise, the owl’s heavy eyelids close, and wren
flies up. Proud.
Imagine, now, I walk in a forest, hear sudden beating wings, harsh churring.
A wren warning. I stop. Until I hear a high sweet chirrup that all is safe.
Wrens keep me safe. Wrens have
bubbling bells
warning churrs
power above and below earth.
