What made the winter wren say,
this is my home now, as it carried
stick after stick and tufts of grass
to the tractor, shaping a soft place
inside the arm that lifts the bucket?
What gave such a small body
so much space for song, belting out
notes from its perch on top of the seat,
chirping if we get too close to that
hollow where her young are now
hatching, calling out in hunger?
What fills any of us with care enough
to say yes to this difficult world,
taking our places in it, despite
the risks, knowing the dangers?
Watch how the wren shrinks itself
to fit inside the tractor we haven’t
driven in weeks, where tiny beings
have just emerged from eggs the size
of marbles, each one filled with
the songs of their mother and father,
a music that’s larger than this
one life we are given.