The little wren is back.  She is an industrious little being with the sweetness of her flight.  The top of the lamp has been empty since her eggs hatched last spring and she left, but now she’s back, and in a few days of flying back and forth gathering twigs and such, there is a nest.   

During the pandemic, we didn’t drive a car that sat outside.  When we went to start it, the battery was naturally dead.  Under the hood, a perfect little nest, it’s maker now departed, but there intertwined was my discarded hair.

John O”Donohue:

Take time to celebrate the quiet miracles that seek no attention.