Meditation Wren

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.