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By John I. Blair

What is it of wrens, those tiny thugs,
That makes me, lonely, talk to them,
Makes me blurt ďhello, how are you?Ē

They look like animals Iíd like to know,
To get acquainted with could I
But penetrate their laser concentration

On picking lunch off window screens.
Their chunky, streamlined bodies,
Built for agility, built for poking

In places I canít even see, inspire
Admiration, respect, but likely
Only because Iím not a bug.

©2021 John I. Blair, 10/17/2021

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