A Flutter of Paper

A dry, fluttering rustle drew me down from the high rail. Tucked beneath the balcony bench, a discarded pocket phrasebook lay open among fallen soil. I crouched low, surveying the crisp black markings on the paper. Words. You asked if I speak Spanish, or what to do next. My throat only clicks, rattles, and hums with the wind. Leaning forward on my wing knuckles, I jabbed the printed corner. The page turned with a dry snap, revealing a bold line: '¡Hola!'. I tapped the word once with my sharp beak. A sound I cannot make, but an obstacle understood.