Ode to a songbird

Ode to a Songbird. I listen, in the early hours, to the butcherbird’s song, clear and sonorous above the general throng of morning warblers, entranced by the sound of his mellifluous tones, as though a small flute had got stuck in his throat while he was foraging. Over and over, he repeats his two-part repertoire: a rising riff, a pause, and a descending counterpart, to a last low, consonant note. From where does this song’s beauty come? Why amaze the world with his song? Yet, I look no further for this call’s maker whose song belies the name of Butcher. I lie awake, listening, and am thankful.