The Mockingbird will sing for countless hours
his stage a wire a pole a nest a tower
He tells the world all sounds he’s ever heard
And leaves the listener to fill with words
His acapella repertoire of power
He’s something of a crier on a hill
His news is never noisy never shrill
He brings his audience a melody
From nature or man’s machinery
Its whistles, hums and jingles, warbling trills
He acts like they’re the sounds we’ve never known
But not for gossip not for show alone
He sings like they’re original creations
Like he’s the bard of aviary nation
His song continues when his strength is gone
He sings like it his job, until he stops
He sings when he is silent till he drops
He sings like it’s his part to tell his story
He sings until he stops for Lori
The Mockingbird, original, yet not.
Lamar Howell's Weblog 
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