you ride warm thermals
drifting up from corn stubble
buzzard on broad wings

I’m on my new e-bike, feeling almost as free as him, though I have to keep left and avoid potholes. When I see this handsome bird surveying the field, I am compelled to stop and listen to his raptor cries. Why do you call? Is he calling out to a mate, to stake his territorial claim? Perhaps he’s just enjoying the sound of his own voice as it carries out over the marsh. I like to sing to myself too. I’m compelled to speak with him; to connect with this sky-being – silly, earthbound me, with my clumsy bike knocking between my bandy legs. Orange helmet. My attempt at a buzzard call is poor, but it has caught his attention. He turns, flies towards me. He cries again, and I reply. Now he soars above and cocks his eye at me. I am seen by this wild being! I am seen! He spoke to me. I’m real. 

little silver friend
you catch sight of me and freeze
how are you vermin?

I often call to the seagulls, to the pigeons, doves and crows and do it well, but I can’t speak Squirrel. So I use my human voice and speak in English. Of course, she freezes, wonders what-the-fuck led to this breaking of the fourth wall, then flees. It’s how we all start out, before we learn how to converse with others. Peabugs unfurling in my slender child’s hand as I spoke to them in sing-song tones they did not understand. The slow-worm I held captive for a week and called Charlie. He didn’t want to be in that plastic tank and certainly didn’t care for my songs. As I grew, I learned other languages, French, German, Spanish, but now I want to learn to talk with everything, everyone! I want to know how other creatures sense our world, to read their thoughts, taste their lives. I want to know the stones, the rivers, the reeds and willows. To be part of the greater conversation. Is that greedy?

as fish sing love songs
in the shallows of the lake
anglers hear nothing.

Image my own.