Luyện nghe bài hát Cowbirds

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

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

They no moss,
carry no leaves,
To fashion homes
In the or the eaves.
A roams the woods until
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 one hatches quickly,
And what hes wired to do.
With a thrust of his juvenile legs,
He starts to dispose of the eggs,
short work of the slumbering finches or phoebes,
Who drop to the ground any sound,

Or, he leaves quite alone!
a stranger arrives 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,
get little or nothing at all.

The dusk is with the call of the cowbirds,
The striking display of wings.
I watch hold court by the cherrywood feeder,
And quietly ponder the of things,

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

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

As a stout baby cowbird asleep
To the piteous of a ghost,
And the of his mamas mantra:
May we ever our host.