Jul/Aug 2021  •   Poetry  •   Special Feature

House Wren

by Amelia Díaz Ettinger

Photo by Pawel Czerwinski on unsplash

Photo by Pawel Czerwinski on unsplash

House Wren

Troglodytes aedon

to have so much in common with a brown bird
especially now during this pandemic

she and I cave dwellers—troglodytes that gnaw
at seeds, insects, and time—she awaits her brood

to grow and fly away—while I long for my children
to return to this garden to play and forage

we bide our lives in this same meadow
she a gifted songster that gurgles and stutters

while my voice rises in bursts of silent loneliness
we let each other share this side-by-side communion

her black eye eyes my own as I near her wooden house
over the fence of my garden—her tail-cocks a wave

I say hello with two fingers at my temple
—the grace between neighbors

as I nibble an apricot—she feasts on a moth
we dream of company soon