there's a tree where a wren squawks loud and long
next to the wrought iron bench in the yard
her nest is there and when I pass by
she comes to the tips of the branches and scolds
makes no difference to her
whether I was an egg child once myself
I'm queen of the jackals for all she knows
red lace dress castanets and all
I don't speak wren but she's right not to trust me
I sleep on down pillows
on a soft feather bed
and now that her babies
have pecked through their shells
she squawks louder and longer
steps farther out on the branches to scold
and whether I walk unsteady and warm
like a newborn foal
or billow through life like a black ghost knife
makes no difference to her
she has fledglings to feed
she is right
and I am wrong
her world is made of effects I have caused
and mine was made up by small men and their God.