What he takes he makes his own

Check out my latest Bestiary column in Orion on the Superb Lyrebird.

HERE HE STRUTS OUT of the brush, clearing a stage, ready to flex. Behold his marvelous tail, a clutch of sixteen elaborate feathers—an array of skeletal plumes framed by a pair of thick, striped primaries—that rise and curve outward. Together, they mimic the shape of the bird’s namesake, that sweet scoop of a hand harp beloved by bare-assed cherubs and the god of music himself, Apollo, shining like the sun. Somewhere nearby is a honey to woo, and he’s ready to impress. Up comes the tail in a flirty swoop, while bop by bop, the rhythm takes him.

On a planet resounding with ardent birdsong, few acolytes can go toe to toe with southern Australia’s superb lyrebird (Menura novaehollandiae). Gray-brown and pheasantlike in appearance (though perhaps a bit too bug-eyed and froggy-faced to be called so handsome), a lyrebird is a master mimic. Still, he brings his own tune to the dance, a series of space-age pew-pews, whistles, and warbles, before the love of freestyle takes him, and soon enough he pivots, sampling a cuckoo, a kookaburra, a fantail, and a currawong.

If a rival steps, our guy leaves it all on the floor, and you’ll be looking over your shoulder, asking, What barking dog? What crying babe? Ringtone, car alarm, shutter click, and chain saw growl—his lyrical joust is electrical. Superb. His inspiration, endless. What he takes he makes his own. So entwined with his surroundings, they cannot be separated—his art, his longing, his joy.