watching wrens

brown thrashers and other thorn
birds shuffle their decks of cards 
as i kneel to examine swollen orange
mushrooms with cantaloupe skins.

wrens cooperate in this irrational
forest, destroying a swallows nest.
the pair hold their tails upright, like
halves of a lifting bridge.

Procne had a son whom she boiled,
and served to his father for breakfast
as revenge since he raped her sister. 
then the gods turned her into a swallow 
so she might avoid vengeance.

both sexes of tree swallows feed the 
wee nestlings, at a rate of 10 to 20 
feedings per hour. the male wren 
probably punctured any eggs the 
swallow laid, to show his mate how 
tough he was.

wrens would be wholly inconspicuous
if not for their complex songs which
can carry as far as 1,000 feet, or
the distance between our two
hearts that last breakfast.

we gambled on each other, sure
as daylight pours through these
hackberry limbs- but we busted like 
a yolk sun sinks into far hills pitted 
like dense bread.

no gods anywhere could have made 
your voice any clearer in my head 
than it is now, watching wrens.