The Mocking Bird
I had a bird once. Or so it seemed. He was my friend. Maybe he was just a bit confused? He was after all rather young. Or maybe he understood the way I felt? Maybe he understood my sense of need and belonging. This bird was a Mocking Bird, so maybe he was just mocking me for trying to sound like he.
Early every morning I would stroll outside and whistle to him. Be it a Bobwhite, a crooning Crow, or even in my sad attempt a Robin or a Blue Jay. In any case I imitated rather poorly. This little bird would sit in my neighbors Kumquat tree. Always in the same tree he would imitate my sounds. I would try to be clever and make odd sounds, unusually shaped textures, he would comply.
Always outdoing my feeble attempts. He seemed to take pride in being pitch perfect and articulate. I would stumble along in melody and fashion.
This little fellow would actual at times anticipate my sounds. That Mocking Bird, sometimes new that I had used certain patterns to communicate with him. I would stumble along, as always, he was rather amusing. This went on for days. I loved that Mocking Bird, not yet fully grown, but a timid thing.
He would always start off every morning trying to get my attention. He would sing a soft sweet song to entice me to duel with him. How could I resist. He’s start in with a simple melody. I’d emulate. This after several duels would evolve into complex patterns, which I could not follow. Mocking Bird would go off for minutes on end. In a way, you could say like an auto racer taking a victory lap. Or as an opera singer walks out onto stage to take a final bow to the cheering and delight of the audience wanting more, more, more. I could not compete. His incredible enticing singing was too much for me. He had won yet another round.
Finally one early morning, I made a sound, he echoed. I walked slowly to the tree dueling. Almost face to face. I made a sound. He emulated. Again and again to the braggadocios humming, chiming and tuning of the days past. He looked at me steadfastly, and I being so close wondered why he did no fly away. I turned to listen one last time to the Mocking Bird’s beautiful song, for I never saw or heard from him again. Although I daily continued to whistle aloud to him and anxiously awaited his reply, it never came.
What happened to my feathered friend. He wanted nothing more than to sing. To perhaps show that he too had a purpose. I wanted nothing more than a new experience that I could call my own.
Written by Stack Jones
© Copyright 2010
