Wren, warning the world off, hops his roof, keeping the nest of cracked shells, twigs, soft white dung. His bug-fattened hatchlings have not seen from the hole through which he enters their wooden home. What they know of the world is a circle of sun and a tangled bed, and the feathered whirl that brings inchworms, green, tender. When ninety summers have fed and fledged and I still move among the sticks, beak open to a wooden sky, I will say this again. Wren, perch at my door, and hold out, through the circle of light, a green worm from gardens outside of here.