My Marsh Wren (48)

I'm taking another bird class at the community college. This one is wintering birds. We met last Saturday at the Wild Bird Center. I'd been there before, but this was the first time I'd walked out to the wetlands area. There were a zillion water birds, mostly ducks, I think. I found myself growing frustrated. There was no baseline for observing them. I had no idea how to find the different birds our teacher, Kurt, was calling out. I got cranky. This is not why you are here, I told myself. Look where you are. You are doing what you love. The rest of the class had moved past me on the trail, and I let them go. I stood still and listened to the birds calling from all directions. I knew I was hearing the marsh wren because Kurt had told us. But they were hidden in the high growth surrounding the water, flitting from stem to stem. It was hard to get a good look at them. When I did get a clear view of one, I had an "aha." She looked familiar to me. She made me understand wrens for the first time. They have a delicateness and a curving grace. This one was a brown speckled beauty. I was glad I'd hung back, found my center, met my wren. But I'm happy, too, to think I may recognize the next new wren I see. I may know she is a wren before I identify what kind of wren she is. It sounds so basic when I say it out loud, but it feels like a sign for me of forward movement.