The Mockingbird

The mockingbird returns in spring. What it does best is sing, sing, sing. Its sings of this and sings of that and leaves no doubt of where it’s at. It sings all day . . well into night: grows irksome past that first delight. And always comes back from its stay, to that same bush, not far away. The birds of winter soon are gone. Most of them have now moved on. And mockingbird with typical gall, Attempts to mimic one and all. A busy bird it glides and swoops. Will challenge one or even groups. When feeling threatened for its young; A bird-war barrage has begun. This slender mid-sized bird of grey, Will be here soon; it's on its way. Once again to sing, sing, sing, To let us know it's really spring. And late into each summer night, Once I get past that first delight. I'll wish from on my patio chair: It wasn't here, but rather . . there!