From my bedroom I saw a thumb-sized, 
gray-brown wren discover my birdhouse. 
In and out, and then he called a mate.

He called and called, but no female came. 
His song rose, but no answer was sent. 
He checked the house and hopped on a branch. 
His song could be heard far from my sight.

His song aspired, and then one morning 
there she was, checking his choice of house 
as a compatible place to nest, 
and he performed his twit and fluttering 
song and dance for her amusement.

In and out, she tried the house while he performed. 
Then caught by surprise, we, I-a careless boy 
leaped with indifference and slapped the house 
down the house and its branch to the ground.

The dead branch down, no one around, 
furtively, the boy replaced the bird's house 
in the crotch of the tree. Even there 
the wren examined his choice for nesting, 
and so I hung it from a higher branch.

And the nesting began-stems of grass and fuzz 
woven inside the house-both bird's singing 
after each placement had been completed.

Each morning, singing from the nearest roof, 
he held his tail erect, announcing 
their work for the day, then he'd chase away 
intruding house finches, while she cosied 
inside, rounding the nest for the eggs.

Then for two nights in a row, the rains came. 
And each morning he sang on high the same, 
but she never returned to the nest.

And the rains came again, and he kept singing. 
And he continued to build the nest alone. 
For over a month now, he's been back every day. 
And he keeps on singing, he keeps on singing.