It is not a very bright start to the day
But brown backed bird with breast and unders gray
Already staking out his territory
Whistles on low branch of rain soaked blackwood tree.
His voice a voice that no one should mistake
And I hear him sing each morning at daybreak
And of humankind his type of bird seem shy
And grey shrike thrushes the name they are known by.
Their cup shaped nest of bark and grass I've seen
Wedged in fork of branch midst foliage thick and green
I climbed to it saw the eggs counted three
White with spots of brown that's how they seemed to me.
They eat small vertebrates and find large insects on the trees
And they pipe pleasant and cheerful melodies
You hear him once and you'll know the bird again
The memory of the voice with you remain.
He whistles on the blackwood in the rain
And compared to some he does look rather plain
But his music to it has a pleasant ring
And with the very finest songters he can sing.
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