there must be something wrong in wanting to silence any song

Where there were frogs and fish, there were often insects. The blue jay had never been to this willow forest before, but she hadn’t survived two previous winters by being stupid. Well, one winter she had survived by playing court jester for an idiot king and getting paid in better food than she could find for herself in summer, so that didn’t actually count. But, still, she had survived two previous winters, which, to birds like herself, meant better odds of survival than the foolish youngsters who don’t adapt.

Aster thought on this while she circled around, exploring the pond and its amusingly shaped plants (lily pads? She didn’t know the name) while she caught a few sluggish insects. Ha! That’s why she was here, in the southwest of the continent. Up north, she’d probably have to resort to carrion for protein, and she was good at talking her way into a flock (she’d talked her way into a flock of macaws), but, well, best not to be a strange bird on the outside of family loyalties.

Once she’d gotten her fill of insects, the blue jay stopped to rest on a high-up branch of a willow tree.

With a full belly and memories churning in her head… well, how about a song? She inhaled, puffed out her feathers. And sang A Minor Bird by Robert Frost. (https://allpoetry.com/A-Minor-Bird)