A Tit Named Tin

Imagine the internal conflict and insecurity associated with the inability to decide whether you are more tit than wren or more wren than tit only to discover that you are in fact neither. You are a babbler in the chapparall who feeds on insects,bathes,cares for your young and wards off intruders.

You rarely wander from your territory which is only an acre or two of brush. You find a girl. You settle down. You mate for life. You are constant companions mutually preening, inspecting and arranging each other's plumage. Every night you huddle together,chilling in the chill, facing the same direction and looking for all the world like a single ball of feathers with two tails and four legs.

And you're not heading for any open spaces in the near or distant future.

You're a male and your name is Tin.

You're Wrentit Tin.

And you're happy where you are even happier than the over-rated lark.

And you thank God every day that you're a wrentit and not a bushtit.