Cloudy and cool. From the wood’s edge, a new song, wistful yet ebullient, from our most faithful, year-round singer, the Carolina wren.

A silent ordnance drifting on the wind crumbles on impact against my legs. I suddenly realize I haven’t heard a Carolina wren in weeks.

White above, white below, and the dried weedstalks in the yard a scale model of the woods. A wren circulates with a brief news bulletin.

Yesterday’s slush has set like poorly mixed concrete, and the road’s slick as glass. The Carolina wren sings a song I’ve never heard before.

The bubbling song of a wren in the half-dark makes it suddenly half-light. From now till blue noon, everything else is a footnote.

The lone survivor of the yellow jacket holocaust under the porch floor two nights ago slowly circles my legs. My foot freezes in mid-tap.