Sing a song of sixpence...

There is a wren who comes to my garden every evening. He is singing even as I write. For such a small bird he sure does have a great set of lungs. He sits on the branches of the bushes and trees, shuffles a little then opens his beak and a flurry of the most beautiful notes comes out. The wren is Britain's smallest bird, dull and drab brown and a serial bigamist to boot but that voice more than makes up for it. I think he comes to keep me company, to spread his beauty and flood the house with song during my dark days. As many of you know the last 18 months have been very bad for me but the wren's presence seems to be his way of telling me that there is still something beautiful and worthwhile in the world.