There’s a tree in the yard where a wren built her nest
the fledglings are there and when I pass by
she screeches and squawks loud and long
comes to the tips of the branches and scolds
and the snows I recall or the days I regret
or whether the raindrops know that they’re wet
or if I was once an egg child myself
makes no difference to her
I’m queen of the jackals for all she knows
red lace fan and castanets
the closer I come to the tree in the yard
the louder she screeches
the longer she squawks
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 care for
babies to feed
her world is simple
mine is complex
and when they collide by the tree in the yard
only my world has raindrops
and snow
and regret.