Every morning I wait for it – that freak of a bird that can’t even sing.

Not the one that collects all the quality notes and arranges them in perfection before displaying them in song.

That one is vain, and pretty, and has a gift for composition.

No.  Not that one.

And not the picky one that hones in on a sole flawless sound.

That one has perfect pitch and single-minded purpose.

No.  That’s not the one either.

There it is!  That’s the one!

The one that strains back into its ancestry to yank out a sound not quite reptilian, not quite avian.

Can you hear it revving up its vocal chords to sound like a reluctant car in winter:

     Start, start, start, start, START.

     Start, start, start, start, START.

What’s with that bird?

That freak just can’t turn over into song.

I can so relate to that bird.