Luyện nghe bài hát Cowbirds

I wake up to the of the cowbirds,
Their burbling, 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 their feeding,
I begin
Of their ways.

gather no moss,
They 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 stays awhile but brood.
She wont return to food,
But simply the scene.

Her young one quickly,
And what hes wired to do.
a purposeful thrust of his juvenile legs,
He to dispose of the resident eggs,
Make short of the slumbering finches or phoebes,
Who to the ground without any sound,

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

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

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

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

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