And you cannot sing like a wren with the voice of an eagle...

Two weeks ago our little Carolina Wren was upstaged by the Bald Eagle that perched atop a tall pine behind our house. It was two days after the invasion of our Capitol Building in Washington, and the eagle seemed to be a messenger of some sort worthy of a blog post. So now it’s time to get back to the neglected wren and sing its praises. Because in Greek and Celtic legend, the wren is the “king of birds” - so named for flying higher than any other bird including the mighty eagle on whose back the wren had hidden until the eagle finally tired and descended leaving the wren above triumphant.

If you read that eagle blog, you might recall that the eagle’s voice is not commensurate with its stature in other respects and that Hollywood dubs in red-tailed hawk calls whenever portraying eagles in movies. The minuscule wren, on the other hand, has a lovely, loud and often persistent song. A male Carolina Wren may sing as often as 3000 times in a day. And, after accounting for size and weight (somehow), the song of the Carolina Wren is ten times louder than that of a crow. Thankfully, it is also 100 times more pleasant.

All 83 Wren species originated in the Americas, and only the Winter Wren is found elsewhere. Carolina Wrens are non-migratory and native to the southeastern United States. However, in recent decades they are found further and further to the north as the climate warms bringing their winter presence to our New Hampshire yard this year. They are cold sensitive so if we have a colder winter in the future, they may disappear to the south for a few seasons. Carolina Wrens are insectivores feeding in the warmer months on spiders and other insects, but now in January in New Hampshire our wren seems happy to find suet in the feeder.

In Ireland, wrens have long had the unfortunate fate of being hunted and killed on December 26, St. Stephen’s Day (also called Wren’s Day), to symbolize the death of that saint. In contemporary times, toy birds have replaced the dead ones in parades celebrating St. Stephen. But, here’s how Mary Oliver celebrated this little bird as an “invention of holiness” like herself, ourselves, and the rest of creation.

The Wren from Carolina by Mary Oliver

Just now the wren from Carolina buzzed

through the neighbor’s hedge

a line of grace notes I couldn’t even write down

much less sing. 

Now he lifts his chestnut colored throat

and delivers such a cantering praise–

for what?

For the early morning, the taste of the spider, 

for his small cup of life

that he drinks from every day, knowing it will refill.

All things are inventions of holiness.

Some more rascally than others. 

I’m on that list too,

though I don’t know exactly where.

But, every morning, there is my own cup of gladness,

and there’s that wren in the hedge, above me,

with his blazing song.

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