by Susanna Lang
A man with a baseball cap
and a gap between his front teeth
thinks he can speak bird
but when he calls
the sparrows stop singing—
white-throated, white
crowned, Lincoln’s, chipping,
junco, vesper, lark, clay
colored, savannah, fox sparrow—
half-hidden shapes
among leaves that curl
and crumble toward their fall.
Come spring, these trees
will recall a few notes
at first, then more;
the returning birds
will take their turn.
Even we, dumb beasts,
might feel the stirrings
of something we have mostly
forgotten. Even this man
could learn a word or two
of the language he is only
pretending to speak now.