In this bright country, the lovely language is not my own.
Listening, I hear a word I know, catch a meaning,
And often must say, “No entiendo”
Or perhaps, “repite mas lentemente, por favor.”
I am trying, learning, studying.
But when I wake from sleep, into the light,
another tongue I know so well, calls to me.
The voice from a flash of red and black on the line,
The mewing call of a blue mockingbird from the coraline
The busy chattering of olive drab from the bushes,
Is not that of my past, more familiar company,
Yet, they seem to still speak a musical dialect I know.
It is the language of joy, here and everywhere.
In this place full of flight and song,
In my solitary time, they are my wild family.
Observing, finding who they are, I say aloud the names,
And tell them those of their northern cousins.
Sitting, working out in the open air, sleeping dogs at my feet,
These messengers gather in trees, thickets, on the fence, the ground.
A flock of swallows dip and soar as the day opens wide.
Snow white egrets move gracefully together over the lake.
Near silent hummers dance among the flowers, always in motion.
Tonight, a bit past nine, cozy in my sheets with book in hand,
I hear the whip-poor-will repeat her bedtime story.
Eyes closed, I thank her, and all feathered kin in my evening prayers,
For the blessings and comfort of their presence,
Offered freely to the world, without thought or effort.
I dream of a home in this new land, of wings and songs in the air,
Listening, feeling, and living happy among the birds.
