00260016Apparently, I’m not the only member of my family who’s settled into a new home for the winter. High in the stone-walled entryway of the house on the river is the tidy little cup nest of a long-gone phoebe. I’d noticed signs of disturbance around the abandoned nest: grass pulled out, an unsuccessful  egg tossed out onto the walkway, a slight disorder, droppings. But I never understood why those signs were there. Until last night.


     Out of the nest, lit by the walkway light, a tiny tail protruded. A tail with the unmistakeable stripings of a wren. Wrens had taken up the habit of building shelters in my walkway plants. But I’d never seen one move into a space once owned by another bird. 

     He doesn’t seem to mind my being nearby;  isn’t troubled by the light or by my trips for firewood. And in the morning, he’s gone, singing happily from nearby bushes. I hadn’t planned on a houseguest for the entire winter. But this one is delightful. And welcome.