Luyện nghe bài hát Cowbirds

I wake up to the of the cowbirds,
burbling, beautiful cry.
You can see them all day at the feeder.
They started appearing in July.

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

gather no moss,
They no leaves,
To fine homes
In the or the eaves.
A cowbird roams the until
She a nest that fills the bill,
Snug in a of green.
She stays 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 to the ground without any sound,

Or, he leaves quite 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,
Will get little or at all.

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

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

How it hardly fair
That some 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 of his mamas mantra:
May we ever our host.