Mourning Song

The wrens are back,
singing over the little cedar house
that dangles from the swing set,
singing, where the big tree used to be.


The wrens are back,
singing over the gravel
where the car was driven into the ground,
driven down until glass shattered,
metal crumpled and springs collapsed
under the weight of leaves and wood,
singing, where the big tree used to be.


The wrens are back,
singing over the sunny yard
where broken limbs and massive trunk
buried the space they had shaded
before the twister laid the giant low,
singing, where the big tree used to be.


The wrens are back,
singing over faded shadows of sweaty men
and the tracks of powerful machines,
singing in air filled once with howling wind
and deadly flailing branches,
then growling chain saws,
then silence.


The wrens are back,

singing over and over,
where the big tree used to be.