Some shade of dawn

starts the meditation wren,

maybe on the broken fence

behind the house.

I’m sitting in a dark room,

riding the untracked ocean

of my own breath

and this little bird

insists upon itself,

more song than feathers,

cocking it’s tail

somewhere inside my head,

then silent, then saying

the name of its constant moment

from a thin green branch,

bowed by the weight of a wren.