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My roommate says it’s 14 degrees outside. I believe it.

I bundled up and then headed over to Higginson Hall to print out some assignments. I almost froze as still as a statue–it was that cold. I shook my longish brown-and-teal hair over my ears and part of my face to make up for forgetting a hat.

I stepped into the computer lab and breathed a sigh of relief; it’s much warmer in here. While the printer did its usual clamor of printing I looked outside. There was a little wren fluttering up to the window, trying to hover like a hummingbird as it stared longingly inside. Wrens are little things, and sharp-eyed. Small birds always capture my heart, and this little forlorn fellow had the whole of it.

These wrens are gray and plain with a single spot of red between their shoulder blades. The first time I had noticed this I had thought it a spot of blood, though I later determined it as blood-red feathers. Robins are renowned in myth for being the birds who flew up to help Jesus on the cross. In myth, they got their breasts pricked by the crown of thorns until the blood flowed. Perhaps in a forgotten myth this wren had been one of those too; a loyal little bird, almost unnoticed.

When I was done printing I stepped to the door and opened it. The bold little wren flew up to the grating just beyond. There he stood, not two feet away from me. I was uncertain of whether I should let him in the room or not. If he stayed in the room he would be warm but might starve to death, if he stayed outside he might freeze.

But before I could make up my mind, he was gone with a whisk of wings. He had vanished into the snow-laden bushes once more. God says not a sparrow falls to the ground without Him noticing. God can take care of that little fellow.

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