I was on a poetry kick the other day (notice I even added a fifth book to my reading list...), and happened upon this gem of a poem by Mary Oliver, who writes about so much more than just a mockingbird. Which is, sadly, the one bird I don't have a picture of.
The Mockingbird
All summer
the mockingbird
In his pearl-gray coat
and his white-windowed wings
flies
from the hedge to the top of the pine
and begins to sing, but it's neither
lilting nor lovely,
for he is the thief of other sounds -
whistles and truck brakes and dry hinges
plus all the songs
of other birds in his neighborhood;
mimicking and elaborating,
he sings with humor and bravado,
so I have to wait a long time
for the softer voice of his own life
to come through. He begins
by giving up all his usual flutter
and settling down on the pine's forelock
then looking around
as though to make sure he's alone;
then he slaps each wing against his breast,
where his heart is,
and, copying nothing, begins
easing into it
as though it was not half so easy
as rollicking,
as though his subject now
was his true self,
which of course was as dark and secret
as anyone else's,
and it was too hard -
perhaps you understand -
to speak or to sing it
to anything or anyone
but the sky.
--Mary Oliver
