Gentle Bewick's Wren
Gentle Bewick’s Wren, I heard him call
He trills and warbles for a lady, overall.
The cool of March’s morn and light of sun
Makes his intent apparent for everyone.
He flits from branch to limb without a care
He calls for a mate everywhere.
Will one come to him, and is she here?
Does he make his request ever clear?
He flicks his tail in impatience, you see,
For he has been here an hour, lady absentee.
His eyebrow doth raise in question to be
Will he give me audience or turn escapee?
Focusing my lens, my bated breath held,
I believe my fears have all been dispelled.
As I view a potential shot, what do I see?
A mirthful expression done just for me.
I hope for a Carolina or Marsh Wren
Or perhaps a little House Wren when
My tongue tied self turns about and then
My camera’s battery dies yet again.