A noisy brown ping pong ball jumped
up from the trail and velcroed itself
to the trunk of a Douglas Fir. It cocked
its head to best keep an eye on me.
One earlier lay still on the path.
The scavengers hadn't found it yet.
I didn't kneel and use forceps as some
do to examine its final meal. It lay on
a trail--why not suspect the trail?
Generally wrens stay near the ground where
the food is. Where a sword fern scares
the hawk away. When I play the wren’s
song, sometimes it comes. The song
of rubber tires speeding through gravel
isn’t food is it? It’s not a mate singing.
One horse rider attached a jingly bell
to her horse’s halter because on this
trail once they came upon a bear.