When I was very young,
playing in my grandfathers barn,
a tiny Wren flew through the door.
It fluttered to the topmost
cross beam in the loft where
singing a beautiful song it perched .
Barns are hollow creaking
structures, a place to store,
to capture. And so it was with
the Wren. Soon it poked at the ceiling
to leave where light shown through,
winging from hay bale to peak.
The higher it flew the more
frustrated it became as the barn
held it in. Opening all the doors
was little help for the Wren was
confused. Too many opportunities,
too much frame work to its prison.
But then it tired and sank lower
to land on the barn floor, it
realized the door was open.
With a great will and effort
it flew once again into the sunlight.
I knew then that bird is all of us.
Sometimes we must fall to the lowest
point to truly know the heights
of freedom we can attain. My heart
was bursting with joy, anticipation,
a desire to fly away. And I did!
Copyright: 2008, Donald Harbour