The stubby tailed, brown mouse of a bird, a winter’s
wren, flitted from branch to gate post to eave of the ramshackle shed, finally coming to rest on the rim of the old oak bucket that sat by the smoldering trash heap. He ruffled his feathers, fluffing out against the cold night and hopped from foot to foot. Across the smoldering heap he could see the other birds and beasts who’d come to claim their place by the small fire’s warmth for the night.
His bright black eyes took in the gathering and a rich, fife-like piping rose from his throat, trilling up with the rising smoke. He was glad to be here, though uncertain what had brought him from his nest in the rotted log near the stream. Something had called him, he was sure of it; lifted him from the dark night’s torpor as he snuggled warmly in his nest of leaves and twigs and bits of fluff got from the summer’s cattails. Something . . .
Flitting the short way to the ground, he ran mouselike toward the edge of the mound where the embers burned the brightest. ‘Look!’ he cried. The sound of his voice caught in a semblance of words surprised him. An otter lifted his sleek-furred head and grinned at him, as if he understood.
‘Look!’ he went on, his left wing pointing to the pulsing heart of the coals. ‘There are pictures moving in the fire.’