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It first comes to visit him in the autumn.
He doesn’t pay much attention then, giving a warning chirp and snap when the translucent wings beat too close above him. He’s hopping on the ground, flitting back and forth, picking up twigs, bits of cracked and dried leaves, a torn scrap of cloth. His nest grows sturdier, preparing for the winter.
He’s lucky in that sense - he doesn’t need to fly far, far away like the other birds when the air chills. The large creatures in the house are docile in nature and don’t mind him making a residence in their territory. He’s whittled out a space under the eaves of their house, a hollow space snug enough to fit a little nest comfortably.
They have a young one in the house. Sometimes it leaves out food for him, on the ground, in the metal box and more recently, in the palm of its hand.
He was suspicious in the beginning, watching the little one from the safety of the branches. The little one is painfully loud, awake to hunt before even he started chirping at dawn. Sometimes in the afternoon it brings its companions back, and they all play outside.
Eventually it noticed him and began to leave food outside. There were days when the little one would lie down, food surrounding it like an offering - nuts with their pesky casing removed, smears of nut smeared over its limbs, its pink round face. Days went by, the little human gazing patiently at the little wren.
He had given in then, after several close ‘take and fly’ attempts with no threatening consequences. After all, the nutty batter looked (and tasted) far better than the brittle skeleton of an insect.
It felt warm as he landed on its arm, pecked away the batter. Living breathing stone, before it started to shake.
He flew off, only to realise that it was laughing in joy.
The days are getting cooler. It’s rare now for the sun to come out and stay out, not shielded by the heavy clouds. It vibrates in the air before perching on smoothened wood, watching him as he sunbathes on the yellowed grass. He opens one eye, meeting the iridescent glimmer of its many eyes, the shimmer of its wings far more intricate than his own.
It isn’t afraid of him.
They stay like that, encroached in each other's presence, neither a threat nor an ally.
It comes again, right up to his nest before dawn. There’s frost on the ground and the leaves have long scattered down from the trees, bare branches reaching up to the sky. He’s too sleepy to leave the nest, not when the sun hasn’t peeked out to warm his feathers. He chirps, gurgles warningly as it lands on the edge of his nest, spindly legs curled against the twigs poking out.
It watches, worn wings at ease.
It flies off when the sun is out.
It doesn’t come back.
Winter is cold, leaving him constantly fluffed up. The ground is frozen solid, insects long gone and so he takes advantage of the young one’s kindness, the warm air circulating from inside, nuts and seeds crumbled into manageable pecks. He thrills several times to show his appreciation, puffing out his chest as the little one and its companions laugh.
Spring is a busy time. He’s looking forward to gorging himself on the soil’s bounty after the ceaseless cold, replacing dulled plumage. He flies off for one round of the sun and the moon trading places, another when he finds a feast of spilt walnuts on the ground, the metal feeder broken open by squirrels.
When he returns, there’s a crow waiting for him. In his territory. He squawks, fluffing his feathers up till he’s twice his usual size.
It doesn’t look impressed, perhaps because it was several times his width and breadth.
Well, he isn’t going to give up this place so easily, not when it was far easier for a crow to smoothen out a territory than for him .
In the end he drives it off without much of a fuss, chirps high pitched and groused.
That night he pecks harshly at the little one’s limbs, scolding it for letting some interloper move in.
Its back again.
It brought sprigs of red berries clutched in its beak. He flies down from his nest, hopping a few places away, eyeing the shady crow.
No matter how he looked at it, it was suspicious.
It puts down the berries and caws at him, flitting back its glossy wings. It then lies down, closing its eyes, ignoring his indignant cheeps asking him exactly who did he think he was.
He takes the berries after all, but not before ruffling those tidy feathers out of place.
The days grow warmer.
Soon it’s summer.
He wakes up one morning, sleepy chirps causing his frame to shake. Besides him, the warm bulk of the crow breathes in and out, its beak dipping down to help preen his head feathers. The new ones growing in were particularly itchy, and his eyelids flutter as he bows down, becoming one with the base of the nest. Since they had become friends, the crow occupied his nest as though he was the one who built it.
He needs to expand the nest now, least all his hard effort into building it comes crumbling down from their shared weight.
A peck at his back signals the crow is done, and he shakes, preening his wings and ensuring they’re in peak condition.
He flutters onto the crow’s back, to exchange the favour.
Afterwards they would visit the little one down below, when he came out for breakfast. Then perhaps a dust bath and a visit around the edge of their territory to scare off would-be invaders.
A warning caw brings him back and he realised he’s tugged at a feather too hard. He chirps his apology, before tugging once more. Before the other can retaliate, he proceeds to hunker down, clucking loudly to weaken the other’s defences.
A defeated caw is his reply and he clucks louder in victory. They aren’t hungry yet, and there’s food left out from the young one before it left the house. He nestles further down into fuzzy back feathers for a quick nap, comfortable in the knowledge that he won’t be thrown off by the larger bird, who was rumbling away.
They should stay like this.