I’m a bird.
One day, the thru-hiker came by
and tried guessing my name.

She got it wrong.

But birdbrains know how to spot beauty over faults.
For the first time in my life, I didn’t
want to shit on a person.
Trembled perch, my bird’s eye view
made my warm blood migrate south.

I coo’d smalltalk the way birdwatchers in bars do
‘Tattoo! Tattoo!’
I don’t know if she ever understood my birdsong

She spoke about feminism, marketing, and interior design.
I sang to her poems, collected
her hair to make my nest more comfortable,
apologized that there was no room
for her in this tree, watched
our incompatibility hatch, like itineraries
and love notes tucked into the spine of a field guide.

You never climbed up here, Birdwatcher.

I left for a year
and came back.
She returned too
with a two-person tent,
slept under my nest,
I watched her tent rattle
with my head tucked under wing
coughed ‘nevermore!’
until sunrise

Two pairs of boots chilled in the wind.
I stretched my tongue out
and whistled a Lynard Skynard ditty
to this Floridian in all keys.
Struggled to be
beautiful, Darwin. Evolved
in minutes as she looked at
me, unfamiliar. All love lost
in her eyes, through binoculars
all my imperfections in
her year’s worth of paper experience.
I am looking at her through shrinking
tunnels, her eyes too small to see
what I take with me when I fly away.

Dimples, glimmering eyes, wet lips, soprano.

About the poem “Birdwatcher” by Aaron Hopkins-Johnson

Summary

The poem begins in the first person: the speaker declares “I’m a bird.” We are drawn into a surreal scene in which a thru-hiker passes by and guesses the bird’s name — and guesses it wrong. The bird knows that birdbrains “know how to spot beauty over faults.” The speaker (bird) reflects that for the first time in its life it didn’t want to “shit on a person.” The perch is trembling; the bird‐eye view makes “warm blood migrate south.”

Next, the speaker imitates small‐talk with the human (“tattoo! tattoo!”) and wonders if she understood the bird‐song. She, the hiker, speaks of “feminism, marketing, and interior design,” while the bird “collected her hair to make my nest more comfortable,” apologized there was no room for her “in this tree,” and watched their incompatibility “hatch.”

The human returned later with a two-person tent and slept under the nest. The bird watched the tent rattle, tucked its head under a wing, coughed “nevermore!” until sunrise. Two pairs of boots in the wind; the speaker stretched out its tongue and whistled a Lynyrd Skynyrd ditty. The bird struggles to be “beautiful, Darwin. Evolved in minutes as she looked at me, unfamiliar.” All love lost in her eyes, through binoculars, all the bird’s imperfections seen. The poem ends with the bird looking at her through shrinking tunnels, her eyes too small to see what it takes with it when it flies away. Dimples, glimmering eyes, wet lips, soprano.

In short: the poem uses the metaphor of bird-watching (and the bird as speaker) to explore a human encounter, mis‐encounter, attraction, difference, and withdrawal.

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Analysis

Voice & Perspective

By giving the bird itself a voice (“I’m a bird”), Hopkins-Johnson creates a playful yet disorienting vantage point. The bird is both subject and observer: it watches the human (“Birdwatcher”) while the human may be watching the bird. This role-reversal creates tension: who is observing whom? The use of the first-person bird-voice invites us to inhabit a non-human gaze and thereby reflect on human interaction from another angle.

Themes of Beauty, Fault & Otherness

The lyric opens with the bird observing that birdbrains know how to spot “beauty over faults.” This phrase establishes an aesthetic of imperfect being, of seeing value despite—or because of—imperfection. The speaker admits that for the first time it didn’t want to “shit on a person” (raw, humorous, subversive). The bird’s warm blood migrating south, the trembled perch: these are indications of emotion, vulnerability, risk of exposure.

When the human arrives with her social talk of feminism, marketing, interior design, we sense the bird’s alienation. The bird collects hair to make its nest comfortable, but apologizes there’s no room for her “in this tree.” That metaphor suggests a home, a world, a belonging which is not shared. Their incompatibility “hatch[es]” like “itineraries and love notes tucked into the spine of a field guide.” The field guide evokes bird‐watching, classification, containment; the bird is in the wild, the human with her tent and boots is a visitor.

Nature, Culture & Migration

The bird migrates south (warm blood migrating south) — the language of biology, instinct. Meanwhile the human brings culture (feminism, interior design) and constructs a tent beneath the bird’s nest. The tent beneath the tree speaks of human intrusion into nature’s domain, yet also human attempt to share or join. The bird whistling a Lynyrd Skynyrd ditty further complicates the boundary: the bird takes on human musical culture, stretching its tongue, trying to adapt (“Struggled to be / beautiful, Darwin. Evolved in minutes”).

This phrase “beautiful, Darwin” is interesting: Darwin evokes evolution, adaptation, survival of the fittest. The bird tries to evolve in minutes as the human looks at him “unfamiliar.” The bird’s imperfections are catalogued through binoculars (the human’s tool of observation). The bird looks back through shrinking tunnels; her eyes too small to see what the bird takes with it when it flies away. The message: the human gaze is limited; the bird carries away an experience, perhaps a knowing, that the human cannot perceive.

Love, Loss & Departure

Though there is attraction, there’s also misalignment. The human’s presence, the return, the tent, the boots — all of these mark an attempt at closeness. But the bird’s voice ends with departure: it flies away, the human doesn’t climb up to its vantage point (“You never climbed up here, Birdwatcher.”). The final loss: “All love lost / in her eyes,” “through binoculars / all my imperfections in / her year’s worth of paper experience.” The bird leaves with something unrecognized, the human stays in her lens, her cataloguing of faults. The bird’s freedom, its flight, its unseen glimmer remain beyond her view.

Form & Tone

The tone of the poem mixes whimsy, surrealism, self-deprecation, mockery, vulnerability. The bird voice allows a mixture of humor (“tattoo! tattoo!”, “shit on a person”) and tenderness. The structure is free verse, conversational, with enjambments that propel the sense of movement (flight, migration, watching, leaving). The lack of strict formal constraint mirrors the bird’s freedom and the unexpected twist of human-bird encounter.

Symbolism & Irony

• The bird: a vantage of freedom, outsider perspective, instinct, nature.
• The human (Birdwatcher): observer, outsider in the bird’s world, trying to interpret and perhaps possess or classify.
• The nest / tree: home, belonging, a world not easily shared.
• The tent / boots: human intrusion, attempt to inhabit the bird’s space but only partly.
• Binoculars / field guide: tools of observation, classification, but limit what can be seen.
• Migration / fly away: movement, separation, resolve.
• “Beautiful, Darwin”: irony—evolution as adaptation, but here adaptation in minutes? The bird changing for human gaze and yet still unseen.

Significance for Arizona / Regional Context

Given Aaron Hopkins-Johnson’s connection to Phoenix, AZ and the Southwest poetry community, this poem may also reflect themes of wildness vs. human settlement, migration, observer vs. observed – all very relevant to desert landscapes, bird migration paths, hikers and thru-hikers in wild zones. The imagery of boots, tents, migration south evokes long trails, wilderness recreation, human encounter with nature.

Aaron Hopkins-Johnson is a writer in Phoenix, AZ. A long-time slam poetry competitor, a teaching artist, and the owner of Lawn Gnome Publishing, he is currently a single father and a copywriter. Discover more Arizona poets HERE.