On Hearing A Shrike Thrush

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.