What a miracle it is that the Earth birds sing
Not enough their soft feathers and tails with rings
Nor the glory of their many brightly colored wings
Though most creatures don’t have any of these things
The songbirds too have the secrets of flight
And keep a clean nest to sleep in each night
But they have yet together a greater blessing still
A song and a voice with a high clear shrill
To warn of the dangers that threaten their flock
To call for their mates and probably to talk
To greet the new dawn coming over the hill
To find somewhere warm in a long winter chill
What a horror it is then that the love in their throats
Is mimicked and mimed in many hunter’s totes
And lead birdshot is sold for ten-dollar notes
To make murdering miracles quite common and rote
