“I’ll hide under your wing,” Rumi says. “We don’t want them to panic, seeing a nightwalker during the day.” Rumi nestles into Sky’s armpit as the macaw lands in the treetop. Birds do have a musty scent by the base of their feathers, but at least they don’t have the body odor problems that mammals do. Still, he’ll be holding his breath as much as he can. “Hail,” Sky says to the songbirds. “How go the skies?” “Well met,” sing the birds as Sky lands beside them. “The breezes are predictable today.” “May they ever be,” Sky responds. Rumi will have to remember to ask Sky more about this formal language later. There are always new bird manners to learn. Increasingly frantic bird jibber jabber. The songbirds get more and more excited as they speak, their voices getting so high-pitched that it’s hard for Rumi’s frog ears to understand them. “Raise a feather to me, and give me a claw,” Sky says, waggling his tail, turning in a half circle, and turning back around. “By the plumes of my underside, I will tell you that I’m heading toward the black smoke. Do you know what currents the air that meets me might contain?”
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