The wren is also known as kuningilin or “kinglet” in Old High German. ~ Wikipedia
What do I know of lark or wren,
of the tiny bird who folded himself
even smaller to hide in an eagle’s
plumage and then broke free, cresting
the air to win the kinglet’s crown?
And in another story, thirty birds
looking for the transcendent one
saw only themselves in the clearing.
But what do I know of the hoopoe,
of the nightingale that lovers love;
of the parrot repeating what it hears,
its one trick till curtain call?
The peacock brushes soft earth
with indigo and emerald. Which
of them will ferry honeybee
or cricket across seven valleys?
At dusk when I hear plucked, insistent
strings in the garden, I almost remember
all their names: yearning and love,
bewilderment, detachment, selflessness,
oblivion… What signpost heralds
the last crossing? I only know
I’ll want to see our reflections
rinsed in that bit of broken
mirror passing for a lake.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.