She meanders the bare woodland edges,
an apparition at dusk
nibbling wild rose hips.
He weaves through winter-flattened fields,
nosing clumps of browned grass
for his Christmas feast.
They forage in frosted red cedars,
a bell choir in frozen meadows
chiming winter carols.
Brown as the old barn's boards
and the dry leaves that litter the dirt floor,
Carolina wrens flit from beam to beam
in the cold December dawn.
Drawn by the lights of morning chores,
they forage for morsels
in spiderwebs
draping walls and ceiling.
We work side by side,
eyeing each other.
Who is the rightful owner,
and who the interloper?
Unexpected companions,
harbingers of cheer
on this drab and frozen morning.
