My first recognition of 
a bird is not the red tailed hawk
gliding across a crystalline sky, not
the bright red cardinal sparkling in
the snow after a lush winter storm.

It is a bird drawn by my grandmother’s
eighty year old hand, at the end of 
a letter on linen stationery, pink with
scalloped edges. Each letter promised a
bird or two, drawn in stick figure formation.

The birds made me smile, they were 
happy, appearing to look right at me.
I don’t remember seeing birds
in my city neighborhood in the northeast,
except for pigeons.

As a child, I did not realize pigeons were
birds, they were just pigeons, cooing and
walking around the concrete pavement. 
We threw them pieces of stale bread
when my mother allowed.

As I got older and became more attuned
to the natural world, I translated my sweet
grandmother’s drawings of birds into a
lifelong love language with these winged
creatures, loving each song. flight, feather.