It flies from branch to branch, as blue as the morning. “Iacháwanes,” I say. Her lips move. “Ia-chá . . .” She wants the word to be her own. “Iacháwanes.” “Ia-chá-wa . . . ,” she tries again. “. . . nes,” I finish for her. “Ia-chá-wa-nes.” The little bird bobs, makes music in his throat. I remember the two that flew above the first time we met. And then it comes to me. Her wooden bird, the roughness underneath his beak, perhaps it is the copper feathers iacháwanes wears. I cup my hand, stroke imaginary wings. She doesn’t follow. I hook my thumbs together, make my fingers fly. Slowly Alis smiles, pulls the wooden bird from her coverings, holds it high enough the creatures seem as though they perch together.