She coos like a bird to you
and your answer is a cocked head
and golden eyes
trained on her warm and climbing body.
Again and again
she sings without opening her mouth.
You are not her father.
Neither of you have met a bird,
just seen them, suspended among leaves
in the hornbeam, through the wrinkled
old glass of our window.
But she calls their call to you
and you listen.
All children must make the same song.