While the wren sings, the heron flying across the lake

touches the water with one wing, deliberate
or a miscalculation, no way to say. The water
isn’t deep except at the center, old creek bed 
dammed to control flooding and create this,

pine water, needled water, lake of old bruises
blooming as old blood turns shades, absorbing 
back into the skin. A car has parked in the woods 
below the causeway. No need to speak with music 

playing and what is there to say anyway? A secret, arms 
warm back in their sleeves. Only the male wren sings 
and must even in winter to defend his territory. 
He repeats teakettle, teakettle: the water on the stove 
is boiling, how can you ignore the scream? Around the car, 
even the branches of the elms have wings.