First day of July—
 
a hawk’s terrifying cry
 
frightens wrens nearby.

 
 

If the door is locked,
 
why try to force it open?
 
Listen, the wren sings!

 
 
 

Windy afternoon—
 
a wren makes little headway
 
through the cruel blasts.

 
 
 

Autumn bitterness—
 
smashing into my window,
 
the wren snaps her neck.

 
 
 

This old stone lantern
 
where a wren once built its nest
 
now holds only dust.

 
 
 

When I write poems,
 
blackbirds fly from my fingers,
 
wrens leak from my eyes.

 
 
 

Without a prayer book,
 
the wren still stops to give thanks
 
forty times a day.

 
 
 

In my backyard plum
 
on the day before Easter
 
a wren builds her nest.

Flute

 
 
 

No one plays the flute,
 
so it plays itself, startling
 
every wren in town.

Wren

 
 
 

Sizzling afternoon—
 
on a sun-seared stump a wren
 
attempts one small song.