The words of a poem should dovetail like wood panels of a finely crafted cabinet. The words of a poem should glide, effortlessly, like a finely tuned drawer. In the box canyon where a canyon wren has nested, the canyon wren’s song glides across the canyon seamlessly like water over rock: each note articulated and composed with a craftsman’s precision. Even so, it isn’t the melody you remember. It’s the way your heart sang out. All along the song was within you but the bird gave it wing.