Luyện nghe bài hát Cowbirds

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

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

Her one hatches quickly,
And does what hes to do.
With a purposeful thrust of his legs,
He to dispose of the resident eggs,
Make work of the slumbering finches or phoebes,
Who drop to the without any sound,

Or, he leaves them alone!
Soon a 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 alive with the of the cowbirds,
The striking display of wings.
I watch hold court by the cherrywood feeder,
And quietly the nature of things,

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

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

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