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 appearing in early July.

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

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

Her young one quickly,
And does hes wired to do.
With a purposeful thrust of his legs,
He starts to of the resident eggs,
Make short work of the slumbering or phoebes,
Who drop to the without any sound,

Or, he leaves quite alone!
Soon a stranger arrives to his gaping beak,
As if he one of her own.
The tale be told in the course of a week.
The latecomers, and small,
Will get little or at all.

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

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

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

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