Oh, that damn blackbird! It been singing for me all day. I sometimes join in - I can whistle a bit - lick my lips, roll my tongue in what I hope is the optimum shape for sound quality and aim a few musical phrases at it to which it replies right back by copying my crude notes, and adding extra cadences of its own. Then I whistle back and it answers again, but so beautifully, professional and perfect with its tones, undertones, countertones, overtones, chucklings and chortlings, burbling and bell-tinkling, and that curious golden liquid escaping from a crushed and rusted tin sound.
But it doesn't mind me at all: it seems to enjoy the game of back and forth even tho my efforts are pretty pathetic. Yet I'm enjoying it too, and not caring that I'm a poor partner. I wonder if it sees me as a monster-sized chick? As the night comes on it's still perched on the top bare, branch patiently coaching me in the arts of song?
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