We had rain here in the early evening and that odd stillness that sometimes heralds a storm. I cannot see or hear a wren without thinking of my beloved Emily Dickinson who, with that mix of true and false modesty that is so characteristic of her, liked to refer to herself as 'Jenny Wren'.
Before a Storm
Among the trees a silence stirs
that seems to haunt my passing steps;
a hush descends to grip the air
but, on some bough, a wren sings yet.
A trinity of notes she swells
to make a modest song.
A storm is brewing, thunder rolls
but Jenny warbles on.
What moves her is a mystery
but I am much impressed;
her song reminds that songs ring true
where nature is expressed.
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