The catbird starts with a “meow.”
You call out for your cat, but now
He’s something else. It won’t be long
till he tries out another song,
And then another. It’s a game,
and no two versions are the same,
And none is him, except as he
delights in his capacity
To mimic any sound he chooses
from his array of random muses.
A prodigy, he does not feel
the least compulsion to reveal;
He’s not averse to being known
for virtuosity alone.
A cricket, resolute though teeny,
made music with his legs and wings,
small twigs, grass blades, and other things
until his teacher cried: “A genie
inspires you! My boy, with strings
you’d be a match for Paganini!”
Mere recognition of the gifted
can cause one’s spirits to be lifted.