A carolina wren danced with a pin, dropped two feathers, and demanded with a voice as large as she is little, that somebody pay attention.

Feathers and pin.

Pin for scale.

      This happens, she said. I didn’t ask for it, and you didn’t ask, but you mustn’t let it pass. Do your Fletchers take whole birds for their arrows? Or only drops, like you? Please infer no judgement, we have a long codependence and there is both honor and utility in voicing a true flight, though we might prefer to know our own old age.

       Then, I think, I was supposed to wake up.