… how excited UD was, last spring, to discover a wood thrush nest next to her house, and how much she loved hearing the famous song of that bird.
What they don’t tell you is that it never shuts up. Among the many poems inspired by the thrush, this one has it right:
I hear the thrush, and I see
Him alone at the end of the lane
Near the bare poplar’s tip,
Singing continuously.
Continuously. Morning, noon, and … no, not night. But I’m asleep at night. And they’re loud. Last year the novelty of the thing charmed me; this year it’s shaddap already.