The bustle sound, quite brief each time, stays hushed

subdued in background,

cannot break through my other teeming thoughts

'Til third so-soft repeat — old fashioned, somehow, strikes me then

the close-by sound I strangely hear . . .

A stately ballgown, maybe, rustling past in some old film?

a satin drape blown richly back by sudden breeze?

But now I'm thinking more of why —

why those sound cues, why now? why here? from what?

And then . . . flurry! soft brown wings blur, feather down my face

as tiny bird flits by me, touching as she passes

Bustling, rustling through kitchen air

Brushing up rough-soft against my startled cheek.

Shocked, rapt I watch wild creature soar and dart and look for light

She's fled her cunning entry place, glass kitchen door I'd left agape

Now seeks out sunshine, lit-up windows glowing elsewhere

finds sweet perch on green sill plants, soars sudden up

Bangs against the bright-lit pane, oh no! but not too hard

Seems quite unhurt, continues keenly to explore

Faster, further, and, of course, a great deal higher

than sorry clumsy biped dumbly watching her

Seeking some benign containment

Of her bold, risky, playful voyaging

now I rush off

to close all open doors

and rush right back again

to keep her, if I can, in view

She has an oddly clever, smiling face—

Just something in the angle of her cunning little beak

the pretty peachy breast, aglow below —

don't know what kind of bird she is

(or he, perhaps?)

but something touching in how this creature

this tiny, trapped, brown creature,

in this strange and peril-ridden world

does not seem afraid.

Not frantic, she's not frantic . . .

and I, so easily made frantic

these cruel, harsh, omicrony days

now catch the viral playfulness, talk to the bird

say come along now, birdie, let's go this way

walk her back toward kitchen, gesturing gently

with my right hand, talking low while I slide open glassy door

as she darts off, soars up

lands on a giant dried hydrangea bloom

kept high atop a kitchen cupboard there —

she poses prettily, peers down at me

And then . . . flies up, down, out

swift into still bright, still white sun

Brief freedom flutter showoff there

beyond the glassy door

And — gone.

***

Maybe a Bewick's wren? Apparently much renowned for their exploratory verve . . .