for a bosom,
of the breeze
on her beak;
the morning sun
as she mutes
I fell in love with Scaly-Breasted Munias the first time I saw them. I remember asking one perched upon a thorny shrub if she had a name that I could call her. Obviously, she flew away without saying a word.
Birds don’t speak English. I am aware of that. But that didn’t stop me from wanting to talk to them a year ago when I started birding.
A few months ago, I decided to start singing to them instead. Inside my head. I can’t imagine the world needs to hear another bullfrog with a bad cold.
So I just pick whatever song that pops in my mind, and sing it to myself.