I was working at the dining room table when I heard an odd tinkling sound somewhere in the house. Later I heard a fluttering. I looked up, a wren was perched on the mantle. It had come down the chimney. A self-assured little bird, calmly flying from one perch to another. He ended up on a bookshelf perched on the edge of a pitcher. The pitcher was by Guy Wolff, a potter in Connecticut where Connie and I first lived together. The little wren was reminding me of our treasures.