Bird Talk Poem by Lois Read

The whoops of joy erupting
from the school playground at recess
into the hot Mexican sky
are not Spanish sounds, but universal language

like the conversation of migrating birds,
the same no matter what nation is below

like the trees, which bud and leaf
without regard to syntax

like the sea, which roars and murmurs
alike to those on every shore

like the wind, which moaned with the same voice
before and after Babel fell.

A Chinese child, or African
transplanted here, would quickly learn
the Mexican version of the game
would shout with equal vigor
unique accents swallowed up in joy.