The Wren from Carolina Just now the wren from Carolina buzzed through the neighbor’s hedge a line of grace notes I couldn’t even write down much less sing. Now he lifts his chestnut colored throat and delivers such a cantering praise— for what? For the early morning, the taste of the spider, for his small cup of life that he drinks from every day, knowing it will refill. All things are inventions of holiness. Some more rascally than others. I’m on that list too, though I don’t know exactly where. But, every morning, there’s my own cup of gladness, and there’s that wren in the hedge, above me,
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