bowerbird ovenbird The bowerbird spends seven years perfecting his architectural craft, an arc of woven sticks and carefully selected objects meant to attract a mate. His song is a rhapsody_in_blue, his home decorated with bottle caps and string, flowers, and shining things. He’s waiting for his love, and when she comes he holds a ring in his hopeful beak, and invites her in. Most reject his artful offering, unmoved by his lifetime of careful refinement, unswayed by his dance and by his call. He has made a model of his heart’s interior and must wait for the one who recognizes its value. Sometimes he waits a very long time. Who can understand why his efforts are rejected, when he’s made a thing of such impossible beauty? When one arrives who is dazzled by everything he’s made, they’ll both be startled by the sudden attraction. His art seems made specifically to set her heart on fire. His song seems tailored to vibrate the air inside her bones. Every failure led to this—the smallest, most common miracle—that one mind might meet another’s and immediately know they’ve come home. 260504 what's it to you? who go blather from