The Language of Birds

by DANIELLE FLEMING

I used to draw birds as a young girl,
used to attach circle to slanted oval,
overlap teardrop wings smudging
feathers and gray crests in graphite, 
saving for last pointed beak and talon.

I’ve spent so much time trying to
understand the language of birds.
Charting chirp and whistle, the rolling
howls of mourning doves, each caw 
and twitter thrown. Even the thundering 
beat of a backwards flying hummingbird.

The audacity of birds without vocal cords,
to find their voice, to try to mimic ours. 
How daring, fearless are birds that even when 
made hollow by nature they coast, soar and
sing floral chorus into linen-sheeted skies. 

There is a song I can never remember,
skyheld, perhaps, just out of reach, born 
on the same wind I have been unable to 
mount. When it’s bright I can taste hints 
of a nectar-coated word lost once on the 
unfurling tip of a hummingbird’s tongue. 

Once I drew flamingos pink with hope, 
cardinals red and dark as blood, and an 
unkindness of ravens far warmer than 
any unkindness experienced by man.

Now made hollow by the year I mimic
those birds, their whistle and caw, still 
trying to taste my voice in honey.