Winter Songs by Cyn
Every early morning he flutters - flitting, head cocked, peering into each window- inspects each joint of beam that joins this home.
At dawn I hear him prodding, slender, slightly down-turned bill probing for a gap large enough to let him in. Treeet? he questions,
like the song inside me seeking to get out, plumage plumped soft in the still frigid air. White throat expansive,
a canyon wren thrums a tune as I hear my husband downstairs, fingers bending nylon into notes of rosewood and spruce.
Coffee brews and wafts between the chords, suspended, like sevenths in the morning air.
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