Cook would drive west to San Francisco, where he and his wife, Donna, lived the other half of the year. Come April, he’d return, as would the birds. “I like being back here with the eagles,” he said.
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“Thrush, why are you singing my song? For yours is just as beautiful as mine, why not sing yours?” The thrush had never thought that her song was sweet, smooth, or lovely enough. After the ...