He arrived in Birdland some years ago. Life had been difficult in his country: heat brought fires, fires brought famine, famine brought unrest, unrest brought misery. Misery brought him to Birdland.
He settled by the Big Tree, making a hut for himself from fallen leaves and branches. He could hear the birds flying overhead, whooshing, tweeting, chirping, cooing, cawing, screeching, their shadows sliding along the ground during the day, their silhouettes etched on the setting sun at dusk.
Avian was hard. He listened for days, weeks, months, patiently practicing what he heard, teaching his throat, lips, and tongue the unfamiliar muscle contractions and sounds, learning to distinguish in his speech the innocent chirp from the gentle coo, the sharp caw from the scared screech. He started to understand Avian. No, not just understand. He could not switch it off. Even if his neighbors discussed the latest trends in feather coloring or beak enhancement, or other topics he did not care so much about, he simply could not stop understanding them.
He learned to perch. A nearby family moved south, and he moved onto their branch, not far from the Big Tree, only a few minutes of flight away. He could not fly, of course, but flying time seemed like a convenient way to measure distance. Distance is important when you are choosing a branch that is right for you, or when you are gathering supplies for your nest, he told his students at Bird School. He taught Avian.
He made it onto the Bird Council, the first one of his kind to make it there. He had a unique perspective on many things, like flying, or making fire, or making it stop. He was quite proud of his work there and the laws he passed. Anyone could be on the Bird Council now, regardless of the number of wings. That was a really big deal.
He retired to the top branch of the Big Tree. It was an awesome place to perch. He did not mind the occasional rain or even snow, for the views at dawn and dusk were well worth being exposed to the elements at the top. Looking at the big red disk of the setting sun now, he struggled to describe in his native language its majestic beauty, both a warning against the impending night and a promise of tomorrow’s new dawn. Only one word came to mind, so simple, so beautiful, so precise. “Ca-caw,” he thought. “Ca-caw!”
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Translated from Avian: http://stihi.ru/2020/09/28/3357