—softly, with hands as gentle as rain, I shall strangle him.

And the language of animals is not as interesting as you might think. Sure, the young druid is ecstatic when they finally master the delicate, fluttering language of the butterflies, right up until they learn that there is only one word in butterfly, which is “Pretty!”

“Pretty! Pretty! Pretty!”

This is their word for everything. Flowers, potential mates, themselves (especially themselves.) The trick is determining which one they’re talking about at any given time. Even then, they’re not great conversationalists.

Bees are exactly the opposite. Bees are caste-riddled and caste-conscious, and have more levels of respectful titles in one burrow than an entire Imperial shogunate. Ancestors help you if you address a third level supervisory administrative assistant in the mode suited to administrative third level assistant supervisors. Don’t run for the water. They’ll wait. Tall grass is a better bet.

Birds, on the other hand, don’t care how you address them. They’re delighted to talk to you, no matter what. All day. Every day.

Every twig that gets added to a nest or rejected is narrated. Every insect that passes their beak is recounted, in exhaustive detail. Every pulled worm will be discussed at great length and compared to every other worm the bird has ever encountered, as well as The Worm That Got Away.

You spend the first twenty years of your life learning to hear the language of the animals, and then you spend the next twenty trying to learn how to tune it out.