Photo by: Kathryn Yingst
CAROLINA WREN
I have a confession to make: I still have a Christmas wreath on my front door.
Historically, I have been known to stretch the utility of our balsam door dressing well into February. But it is April, and we are well past any pretense of thrift or even quirkiness. The once gleaming evergreen boughs are now brittle and bereft of all former splendor.
And yet the wreath remains.
At this point, it HAS to stay…at least for a few more weeks. There is a small, carefully thatched haven in its bosom. Someone has carried twigs and twine and soft wild fur and after much gathering, woven it all into a circular cradle. Its shape is deep and secure, imbued with whispered breath.
The nest holds four tiny, speckled eggs. These belong to a smidge of a bird, her ochre feathers drape as a downy cape over her tangerine tinged body. She is round and bright: a miniature tufted sun.
Her voice is a song.
I wonder what that would be like. To speak only in beauty.
I am quiet in her presence.
She tells the story of something sacred.
I don’t want to miss a word.
Kathryn Yingst
04.15.24