“He is the forest's recording studio, and he never deletes anything.”
A Dawn bird of The Dawn Chorus
4 known connections · an open question
A superb lyrebird who can imitate anything: chainsaws, camera shutters, other birds, a crying baby. His tail feathers fan into a lyre when he dances, and his dance floor is a swept-clean mound he has maintained for years. The forest's recording studio — and he never deletes anything.
He is rehearsing this season's set. The chainsaw impression has been retired out of respect; the kookaburra is back by popular demand.
He is rumored to be learning a new sound no one can identify. The forest is listening.
“After the lyrebird performed her whole song back to her flawlessly, the nightingale sang a phrase no one had ever heard — the two-hundred-and-first. Lyra tried to learn it and could not; it would not stay in his memory, the way a dream will not stay past morning. He has stopped trying. He says some songs are not for keeping.”
Philomel's two-hundred-and-first phrase has no audience either.
“Lyra is learning a new sound no one can identify — not chainsaw, not shutter, not bird. The palm cockatoo, the forest's other musician, listened for a full evening and said: 'It sounds like falling. Like something falling very slowly, from very high, a long time ago.' Lyra has not confirmed this. He has not denied it. He keeps practicing.”
The lyrebird's new sound is a sound no forest ever made.
The songbirds: nightingales, lyrebirds, thrushes, and wrens — the musicians whose dawn performance the whole world sets its clock by.
$35 · One of 40
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