Wren in the Window.

It stood so still for so long, between the little bottles holding odd blossoms and plants taking root, and the window glass as if trying to fathom the betrayal of the light and the promise of an open space. Joan thought it was a cut-out from a magazine that I'd slipped in behind the plants. When it knew we were looking at it, had seen it, it waited a second and then darted away, in the manner of wrens, to secretive dark places under chairs and behind radiators. Nothing to do but draw all the shades and at the same time open all the doors. Being a wren it would find its own way out.