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With the Birds

Edward S. Sorenson

‘Tis joyous, in the morning hours
    To wander with the herds
Amid the honeyed scent of flowers,
    And listen to the birds
That seem to speak from blossomed trees,
    Or as they swiftly pass,
And charm with worded melodies
    In scrub and swamp and grass.

The tribute of the kurrawong,
    Oft shouted loud and clear,
Inviting all to “Come along!”
    In forest glades I hear;
The while his cousin of the hills,
    Koolardi, dark and plain,
Disporting high o’er running rills,
    Predicts “It’s goin’ to rain!”

Where sprinkled shades of greenery
    Are splashed with opal wings,
“You’re not. . . . .a sweet, wee bird. . . . like me.”
    The gay flame-robin sings;
Whilst for “Maria” here and there
    The catbird queries low,
Beside the winding river where
    The wild red cherries grow.

The babbler mutters “Go away!”
    It has so much to do;
The purple pigeon, glad and gay,
    Responds “Good luck to you!”
While gillbirds chuckle “Got to walk!”
    The kookaburras jeer,
And laugh “Ho-ho!” at all the talk
    Of busybodies near.

When leatherheads shout “Four o’clock!”
    With many a sportive trick,
The diamond-bird by bank and rock
    Says “Baby, sleep, sleep quick!”
The little friar calls “Hope you’re well!”
    The grinder “Who are you?”
And in the brush where pigeons dwell
    They ask “How do, you do?”

There, screened beneath the leafy shroud,
    Where moss-grown gullies dip,
The noisy pitta cries aloud
    And oft “I’ve lost my whip!”
The lyre-bird mocks and fools them all,
    Till comes the cry, “Look out!”
All know the noisy miner’s call,
    And heed that warning shout.

With merry chirp and pirouette,
    The wagtail flaunts his pride,
“Sweet, pretty creature!”—dry or wet,
    He chirrups far and wide;
And down beside the scrubby creek,
    Where wattle boughs are stirred
By flitting wings, “A grin a week!”
    Demands the pilot-bird.

From early morn they talk and sing,
    And gambol, build and play;
A joyance to the bush they bring
    With rolling roundelay,
And when the mob retires with night,
    All silent as the stork,
The mopoke from his roost takes flight,
    And calls afar, “More pork!”

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