Wrens

by Margaux Novak


How do birds know about anything?
They eavesdrop each night at my bedroom window
their nest tucked inside my air conditioner
and, longing for the company,
I let them stay to hear
my one-sided conversations with myself.

When I grumble, they grouse.
They tolerate my odd-houred music
and various candle scents
transforming my room from evergreen woodlands
to lavender fields.

And in the early dawn, when waking is hard
they whisper me the weather
coax me with the warmth of summer days
or sigh the pale coos of snow,
call me softly from my bed
and sometimes, not so softly.

Are there eggs in that secret nest of theirs?
I cannot see in to tell.
But I imagine them, sitting, roosting
waiting for their own
and coddling me along instead.

On mean days, when I’m not in the mood for music
they forgive me
sing again.

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