He was insectivorous. Starving most all the time in this season of snow.
The iron gate guarding the drive toward the monstrous home, was itself, comparably monstrous.
The hinged entryway was painted a deep blue.
It served as perch beneath the thinnest of scrawny talons. They desperately clasped the top most rung, tufted snow there magnificently neat. The breast down of the wren fluffed a tuft.
Cast iron, so blue and heavy, girded by frosted granite, it shone as a loud mouth out there by the street.
Just silent though, with the wren singing his complex songs to the audience of cold.
Hunger made him sing so sweetly and honest. Many birds were about. Silently, they were invited by the gate and its armored blue. Only came the wren each day. Even when snow was held by the sky, his little voice was heard as orchestra, until it came.
No one heard him but me. We waited out there beneath that cavernous sky, that bold little wren, hungry and singing an icelandic shrill. I looked up to him, he had left the marsh and come by himself, each day a test to survive.
I blew what little heat I could afford into my hands, I’d had enough out here by my gate.
The wren owned it now, and humbly he knew it.
GJH 11
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