A few days shy
of eight months old,
you’re watching your hands
 
turn the laminated chart of local birds
we keep on the coffee table.
You guide it to your lips
 
and hold it there
for the few seconds you can
to gum the corner
 
featuring the Eastern Meadowlark,
supposed year-round bird
I’ve never seen.
 
Everyone’s gone
to work, and you and I
on the floor face each other
 
in our way of not
manufacturing custom
curtain rods or handling
 
customer service calls
or leveling ground
for an essential structure.
 
You’re giggling because
you can sit now
without tipping,
 
and when your hands disappear,
you can make them
come back.
 
And the Meadowlark’s song
I’ve found on a website
for you to listen to
 
autorepeats its pitch
of tiny hunger,
collected perhaps years ago
 
by a microphone hidden
in the grass near the opening
of its arch over nest
 
of woven weeds.
I’m just talking now,
my large little
 
starling, knowing English
carries only enough
to comfort you—
 
my words, like your fingers,
always arriving again
after they’ve gone hiding.