Every Spring the exact same day,
Grandpa's bird which had gone away,

'Way down South, I suppose it'd been,
Returned to forage his farm again,

He recognized a crooked crest
Or some small feature -- wouldn't jest

About how strange it seemed to find
That creature arriving at the very same time,

How'd it wend its Northward way
From a thousand, or two, miles away

To the very same barnyard, identical tree?
A mystery to Grandpa -- and to me,

But nature's navigators flock together
And find their way to birds of their feather.

by D. Edgar Murray