I wrote one short poem about a wren a while back:
is foreign to the wren.
She is all present in her garbling song,
She is all knowing as she carries thin sticks to her nest box
She is all loving in the dawn
She is powerful in clover to the tiny bug
but the crow could swallow her,
and she would fit into my hand.
She is eager, not tense.
She is present, not passed,
She is perfect, not single,
and no helping verbs accompany her.
Her song is a breathtaking flood,
lilting , unlikely OM
to the wrenmother
And here is one by Gary Snyder. The wren in this poem is not a Carolina Wren, but close enough for what he says:
The Canyon Wren
I look up at the cliffs
But we’re swept on by downriver
Wobble and slide over roils of water
under the arching stream
Rock walls straight up on both sides.
A hawk cuts across that narrow sky
hit by the sun,
We paddle forward, backstroke, turn,
Spinning through eddies and waves
Stairsteps of churning whitewater.
above the roar
hear the song of a Canyon Wren.
A smooth stretch, drifting and resting.
Hear it again, delicate downward song
Descending through ancient beds. . . .
These songs that are here and gone,
Here and gone,
To purify our ears.