Each day I tune my guitar
To the bird who sings in E.
The one with perfect pitch
While counting 1&2,3, 1&2,3,
Fine a tuning fork as can be.

This is where it spends the season,
Staying hidden in the leaves
Having sex with he’s or she’s,
Shouting like “The Birds”
In Respighi’s “Suite in G”.

It’s brown and lives in trees-
I’m not sure of the species;
Here I play 'en plein air'.
Not practice ornithology-
And it’s summer everywhere!

The other ones in primary colors
Of reds and blue and yellows,
Go from A-flat and end in C,
And often sing a bit off key;
The crows clear their throats
And the piccolobird won’t shut up...

But it is summer, after all!
And it’s just the orchestra rehearsing
With flutes and brass of passing geese.
Now the woodpecker rattles a drum roll
Announcing the anticipated maestro.
The applause rises from a breeze
Which brings the garden to its feet.

My guitar and the flying philharmonic,
Performing Villa Lobos in E.
O Saudade! O Corazon!
The prelude has samba wings!