Ken Haas Birdsong To prod the metaphysical struggle between nature and nurture, we quarantine some birds at birth, finches mostly, to see what songs they come to know, whether they will sing at all. Their brethren in the wild meanwhile are learning many, tribal hymns of waking and working, loving and mourning. When the orphans are brought back to the fold they do have songs, only a few of kettle and clock cloistered heart and challenged soul. They are welcomed nonetheless and taught the standards by and by as their own songs vanish in the rose mallow and cottonwood trees. But at the moment of return when the whole flock is gathered frightened and still: what strangeness, what stories.

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