Birds were singing outside the mausoleum.  Loud, they were raucous with the early warmth of spring. Everyone who could leave, left.  The one who could not stayed inside the cold walls of the mausoleum where it was quiet.  Peaceful.

The marbled walls of the mausoleum were expensive. You could tell.  White carrera.  All the same everyone who could leave, left.  Outside birds were singing:  the mockingbird, the bluejay, the sparrow, the cardinal. The wren, whose little house is twig made, not marble, was especially loud.

Tail held high, she was frisky and indifferent to our codes of conduct.  Especially the one made to honor a thing she herself would never be. Language writes itself in marble: the names. The dates: a beginning an end. Language calls to account our days:  the number. But the wren?  She was loud.