PORT MORESBY, PNG — Two Island Imperial-Pigeons waited in the highest branches of a tree, huge against the pale sky of evening. Most of Hus Island was visible from their vantage point, though how much their eyes took in is a mystery I don’t understand.

I don’t know whether they saw the huge, two-story school painted with bright colors, or whether they saw Manus itself, not so very far across the sea.

I don’t know whether they saw the father pointing up to them, talking softly to his small son — the small son who had laid curious hands on the colorless skin of a stranger from far away.

I don’t know whether they heard their name, par. I think the boy heard. I hope the boy heard.

Birds, if dust jacket flaps can be believed, have long symbolized hope to earthbound men and women. I saw hope on Hus Island that night, when a father named the pigeons in a dying tongue.

Whether the boy will remember, I cannot say. Whether the effort was too little, too late, 20 years will tell.

Par may soon be forgotten, replaced by balus, joining a host of other words that will never be heard again as languages march toward homogenization.

But whatever they are called by the humans down below, the pigeons will remain in the trees of Hus, hooting deep and soft, trailing off in the end like old men who have grown tired of their voices.

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