This morning I heard that sound again. A soft fluttery knocking, repeatedly.

A little wren was seemingly trying to fly through my front window, up in the corner, below the curve of the curtain and above the plant with the morning sun on it. From the outside, the room must have looked like a nice place to explore.

There were blossoming orchids along the window sill and bright tulips on the table. The red of last winter’s poinsettia plant must have looked very attractive through the glass. And she could see the light coming from the skylight, giving her a way through had there been no glass. Maybe she was the same wren that had a nest in my hanging begonia plant on the deck last summer, making so much fuss as she and her partner brought food to the babies.

I wanted to open the window and let her in, possessively thinking of her as my own little bird, come home at last. I wanted to watch her explore my house, fluttering from one high perch to another. I could give her some seeds and cut a grape in half for her. She would be happy here, make a nest and have a family.

My eyes got wet as I considered the possibility of a new being in the house. A little guest, taking the place perhaps of the children who have grown and gone, the husband who lived well until his body gave out and the various pets who for a time were members of the household.

Now I embrace the quiet, mostly. My plants are good listeners. They like it when I stand close and whisper to them, my warm breath bathing them in CO2. They drink it in, especially the orchids. And when I am still, I can ask them a question and wait. Sometimes they reply. I hear it as an inner voice that resonates like a cello string. Often it is a reflection of what my heart feels already but I have been too busy to acknowledge, having swept past in the flurry of the day.

There she is again at the window, fluttering close, seeking a way in.

Kanta Lipsky lives in West Tisbury.