The Language of Birds

There are true things
woven in and between the threads
of wicker summer chairs,
under orange juice caps left
unscrewed for hours on a Sunday morning countertop,
and lying on my carpeted bedroom floor
beneath finished crossword puzzles
now discarded.

Outside, hidden birds
chirp of these subtle, true things
(if it's not too hot)
clearing their throats
while ducking from shadow
to shadow,
grateful for the trees.

And like in a dream, I recognize their colors-
the shapes and curves of the letters,
but I cannot read the words they form.

For all the beauty
I can appreciate in their songs,
I cannot speak the language of the birds.