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.