Wren...again

So we have some wrens starting a home and family in our backyard. I think they are new to our location, because I don't remember their beautiful melodies floating across the garden. Today, I had been reading some Mary Oliver poetry before I ventured outside, and when I did, I heard this wren song. It stopped me in my tracks, and I stood stone still, standing just outside our back door, and simply listened. It's one of the most beautiful bird songs I've heard. 

I thought of another Oliver poem, not one I read this morning, but one I think I've referenced here before.

I HAPPENED TO BE STANDING


I don't know where prayers go,
     or what they do.
Do cats pray, while they sleep
     half-asleep in the sun?
Does the opossum pray as it
     crosses the street?
The sunflowers? The old black oak
     growing older every year?
I know I can walk through the world,
     along the shore or under the trees,
with my mind filled with things
     of little importance, in full
self-attendance. A condition I can't really
     call being alive.
Is a prayer a gift, or a petition,
     or does it matter?
The sunflowers blaze, maybe that's their way.
Maybe the cats are sound asleep. Maybe not.


While I was thinking this I happened to be standing
just outside my door, with my notebook open,
which is the way I begin every morning.
Then a wren in the privet began to sing.
He was positively drenched in enthusiasm,
I don't know why. And yet, why not.
I wouldn't persuade you from whatever you believe
or whatever you don't. That's your business.
But I thought, of the wren's singing, what could this be
     if it isn't a prayer?
So I just listened, my pen in the air.