My Fine Feathered Thumb

(Winter Wren)

No, not an NBA-sized thumb, but a small, delicate one with a song that fills the world.

There.

A flit in the shadows too deep to see.
It follows along through fallen branches and woven brambles.
a Winter Wren I think.
What interest can it find in my lumbering way?

Then, just ahead,
it pops onto a sunlit branch. 
I stop in mid stride,
marvel at its minikin size, and wait for what comes next, 
an outsized song, sung once and then once again. 

In a heartbeat it’s gone.
The thrill remains. 
My step is lighter,
my thoughts happier.