I stepped outside
to hear a bell I recognized
out of another season
an ictus of cold wind
left over from yesterday
tied the hills together
in unexpected sun
clouds divided and sped
then a wren who had chosen to stay
wild singing
another of the voices without question
boots in the snow
face in the sun
Laurel Ridge lingering on the threshold
and I heard it again
without understanding
yet without division
in the new day.
—after Merwin's "The Wren"
