Wrens' Nests

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In the whirled whorled world I find ears. I flit fitfully, fleetly flee. There are three thrilling things about worlds: wrens’ nests containing eggs, wren’s eggs and wrens. When you say or think or write or type wrens’ nests, grasses are plucked and lightly and easily twisted into wry wiry dry wrens’ nests, and your teeth are afraid you might break the eggs, or a snake might come hissing with its tongue between its teeth. I’ve felt this with the tiny fingers, my ribs, which might as easily, like the twigs of a thorn bush, hold a wrens’ nest as a wren’s heart. When my claws sit holding a shred of the wind’s winding I have her ear. I have the world’s ear. I have her ear. vyvyan