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 than the jays.
As finish their feeding,
I reading
Of curious ways.

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

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

Or, he leaves quite alone!
Soon a stranger arrives to fill his beak,
As if he one of her own.
The tale will be 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 of their wings.
I watch them hold court by the feeder,
And quietly the nature of things,

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

How it hardly fair
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 mamas
May we outnumber our host.