“To me, an experiment is a kind of conversation with plants: I have a question for them, but since we don’t speak the same language, I can’t ask them directly and they won’t answer verbally. But plants can be eloquent in their physical responses and behaviors. Plants answer questions by the way they live, by their responses to change; you just need to learn how to ask.”
                -Robin Wall Kimmerer, Braiding Sweetgrass

                I remember as a kid being so excited about the idea of being able to talk to birds. Some people I knew immediately turned that idea toward a kind of spying—you could ask what so and so was doing, they said—but for me it was more about what the birds might be saying without any direct prompting from me. What were the chirps? The trills? What did they say to each other? How does this bluejay describe her own paths through the air? Does she have names for the trees she lands on, or for individual branches?
                Looking back, I think part of what I was wanting (or imagining, as a result of shared language) was a greater ability to listen. To learn from, and sometimes simply to participate with, to be in relationship with. I was scared of a dog across the street. But if I knew what it was saying, knew which growls meant stay away and which growls didn’t, I would know more about how to walk near his house. It’s a lovely wish, but it’s also something that I didn’t need the wizardly spells of fantasy novels to do. I think I’ve heard the excited “Food!” of a bluejay standing over a peanut, and I learned something about which of the growls meant stay away. To be connected with is more about time. Spoken language is a way through, but not the only, and there are so many ways of speaking and listening.