In the dead of night,
when a blanket of darkness
and quiet has settled
over the neighborhood,
the only sounds one hears
are crickets chirping,
maybe a frog or two,
a dog barking in the distance.
Then, piercing the night air,
comes loud and clear
the varied song of the mockingbird.

When all other birds sleep,
from them nary a peep,
the mockingbird sings
for all he is worth,
as though his heart would burst.
Of what is he so proud?
Why is it nature’s plan
for the mockingbird alone
to sing so sweetly,
to sing so fervently,
in the dead of night?