The birds haven’t started talking yet this morning, but yesterday there was one outside L.B.’s kitchen that kept saying, “I’m burning, I’m burning!” I didn’t want to tell you about that, because, well, I’m pretty sure that was more about me than about that bird. I thought I’d wait to see if she was still burning this morning.
Which is a lot like when I was in therapy in my twenties (and, well, in my thirties, too), and my therapist, Nancy, had a poster from the Bread and Puppet Theatre tacked to her front door. It was a woodblock of a person hanging laundry, and it said at the top: “AH!” Some days when I left Nancy’s office, the “AH!” looked like someone screaming; and some days, when I was leaving, it looked like someone sighing. You know how it is.
Deitch 
I wonder if it was the cardinal (bird, not Catholic) who visits the garden sometimes. Look for him, he loves to sing, and has let me get close enough to him that I can see his upper-breast pumping as he sings. I don’t know if he’s saying “I’m burning” but he boasts a remarkable redness.
Wouldn’t that be great?