In “Calls,” the speaker gives a reason for his waiting: he has already called out like the birds. A flame flamingo sounds its call, a spotted hawk sends out its deep want, and at dusk warblers throw short songs across the water to those returning home. His own cry feels just as natural and direct—wing to wing, song to song. It is not polite or casual; it is instinctive, the way living things reach for each other.
So he waits, but not alone. He waits with the flamingo, the hawk, and the warbler, as if his longing belongs to the same wild rhythm. The mood is patient and tender, yet full of quiet intensity. There is no demand or frustration, only a steady openness, like dusk holding a sound and waiting for an answer.