What is it of wrens, those tiny thugs,
That makes me, lonely, talk to them,
Makes me blurt “hello, how are you?”
They look like animals I’d like to know,
To get acquainted with could I
But penetrate their laser concentration
On picking lunch off window screens.
Their chunky, streamlined bodies,
Built for agility, built for poking
In places I can’t even see, inspire
Admiration, respect, but likely
Only because I’m not a bug.
©2021 John I. Blair, 10/17/2021
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