I don’t know what kind of wren it is (if wren it is), comes to the feeder every day. There are too many kinds in my book of birds, most, to me, almost indistinguishable from the others. I’m also not sure why knowing the correct name matters. Doubtless, it matters more to me than to him.
Him? Why do I think I know this?
Pecking seeds or hopping about the maple, he arrives each day only after the cardinals have departed. Which seed he prefers, I can’t say, although I’d like to know.
Today he flew from the filled feeder to the broken feeder that dangles from the redbud. He looked about him, left, and a moment later returned to the broken feeder. He was like some avian inspector, preparing to write me up.
If there when I go out with a bowl of seed, new block of suet, he moves away slightly and watches impatiently. I am the slow waiter for whom he’ll leave no tip.
Wren: all I know is the word.