Days ago, a wren flew into my parents’ house
when my dad left the front door open.
The bird flew confused from room to room
and never once sang.
I chased it down, caught it under a towel
on top of the living room curtains
and took it back outdoors where it sat
for a second on the front walk railing
before flying away. Today
I saw one outside the dining room window there
and it sang, over and over. Neither
my snoozing father nor my deaf mother heard.
I do not know if this was
the same bird, but I hope it was.
I will imagine it was
until the last of our days in that house
when the rooms will be emptied
of the aged furniture
and those curtains will come down;
until the carpets are gone as they are both gone
and I lock the door behind me;
until all that will be left
will be memories of myths
of birdsong, gratitude, and escape.