This time of year, birdsong greets me every time I walk out my door. Of late, it is most notably a Mockingbird’s varied song.
This particular bird’s repertoire is impossible to not notice. He seems to know every songbird’s warble and can even mimic the cry of a hawk. He switches songs about every third or fourth stanza, as if trying to fit them all in. Plus he sings from a nearby radio tower, about fifteen feet above the trees.
It may be an imagined thing, but I think this guy has more enthusiasm than any bird I’ve ever heard. He’s loud; he’s persistent; and he’s on the job daylight to dusk.
I’ve wondered about the circumstance that may have him so bubbly. Is his mate nesting and he doesn’t know what to do with himself? Did the eggs just hatch and he’s enthusiastically proclaiming his fatherhood? Did something happen to his partner and he’s desperately looking for another this late in the game?
After a while I gave up speculation to simply admire him. I determined maybe I should emulate him.
Mr. Mockingbird does what he was designed to do. He has perfected his art and does it with his whole heart. He doesn’t seem to care what others think of him, safe in his perch above the world and confident he can defend it. This common little gray and white barred-wing fowl of the air gives glory to his Creator. Even in the rain, he does it as if the fate of the world hinges on it. He sings as if God is listening.