Oh, the cuckoo, she’s a pretty bird,
Lord, she warbles as she flies;
She’ll never say cuckoo
Till the fourth day of July.
This is the chorus of a very old song and perhaps tells us something about the bird’s habits. My dad calls it the rain crow because its call was thought to be a sign of impending summer rain. I love these birds, skulkers in the densest of thickets, the darkest of woods. Something prehistoric about this bird draws me to admire it. I saw this one today in the woods across from Lake Betz: