Wrens are not especially subtle about their curiousity. They want to know, they want you to know that they want to know, and, further, they want you to know that they think you are holding out on them.
Other birds certainly make commentary — the catbird would like to know why, the robins are quite interested in the grubs and other things that creepeth and crawleth in the wake of a gardener’s efforts, and the titmice are engaged in loud and fluttery debates over who is the Greyest, who is the Fluffiest, who is the very Finest, Flappiest, Screechiest titmouse of them all?
Wrens may want to announce news — their presence, their beautiful nestlings that you should admire and acclaim but NOT look at — and they will go on with territorial songs for hours. But — and maybe this has something to do with the times of year I see them, or the melancholy that sometimes coincides — it strikes me that they also want to be remembered at some indeterminate time in the future. As if, and this is ridiculous, as there are (as far as I know) no heirloom maps I need translated at midnight, nor mountain treasures to unlock, they think they might be useful to me somewhere down the line.
“We are wrens. We are legion. Remember us now and in your time of trial…”
On the other hand, they do like knowing, much as I do. Maybe at some point we will have something more detailed to say to each other…