I am a fan, a river of feather,

A tumbling, flowing, unbroken stream,

To mountainous peaks and cliffs, I tether, 

To the evergreen trees, which filter sun’s beam,

I am tied by the rope of my tail.

I am a frigid south-easterly wind-toil, 

The loose shard of sun on which all depend,

The humming life of midsummer soil,

The mouth, the epitome, the river’s end,

In a nebular boat I sail.

I am connected with everyone, everything,

And sing only what all other birds sing.

If cats who destroy in the night hiss and howl, 

I do only what my instincts allow.

Lyrebird, artist of fraud and deceit,

I do only that; accidentally cheat.