Luyện nghe bài hát Cowbirds

I wake up to the of the cowbirds,
burbling, beautiful cry.
You can see all day at the cherrywood feeder.
They appearing in early July.

are stocky and glossy,
bossy,
But no than the jays.
As they finish feeding,
I reading
Of their ways.

gather no moss,
They no leaves,
To fine homes
In the or the eaves.
A cowbird roams the woods
She a nest that fills the bill,
in a tower of green.
She awhile but doesnt brood.
She wont to offer food,
But flees the scene.

Her young one quickly,
And does what hes to do.
With a purposeful of his juvenile legs,
He starts to dispose of the eggs,
Make work of the slumbering finches or phoebes,
Who to the ground without any sound,

Or, he leaves them alone!
Soon a stranger to fill his gaping beak,
As if he one of her own.
The will be told in the course of a week.
The latecomers, and small,
Will get or nothing at all.

The dusk is alive the call of the cowbirds,
The striking display of wings.
I them hold court by the cherrywood feeder,
And ponder the nature of things,

How that have died can collide in the night,
Make a grand show as they spatter,
How sunsets that bring up a groan of
Are filled with matter,

How it hardly seems
That some get the boot,
So others can live and fat.
Theres a there,
But its fruit,
So Ill leave it at that,

As a stout baby cowbird falls
To the cheep of a ghost,
And the sound of his mantra:
May we ever our host.