Attenborough

First month of kindergarten, out of the blue,
slabs appear at the bottom of her artwork.
Ocean, she informs me. A second wedge 
appears, light blue, a sky in which a two-inch Kea 
soars downward for his lunch: red stripe of fish on a box
with wheels and windows. I am the smartest animal
on earth, she chants. I am the smartest animal.
Okay, I concede. But to debate her thesis,
I press play on YouTube, where birds of paradise 
do the work of pop-up pomp,
firework faces appearing on the black stage
of their wings. They’re puppets, she bluffs.
But! The strongest muscle in my body is my tongue!
Just like that, she flutters off to the mirror down the hall
where her reflection flips a glittering headband 
back and forth between its palms.
It’s best if I stay hidden behind the laundry basket.
Bower bird! she’s singing, with quick, light ruffling of her hands— 
Giraffes can clean their ears with their tongue, 
this infant human says to her reflection 
before she shapes her fingers into a heart 
using her twenty-nine hand bones.