CaliToday (24/9/2025): Veiled within the shadowed understory of Australia's forests, a creature steps forth from myth. It carries on its back a magnificent tail, shaped just like an ancient lyre. But the thing that haunts the entire forest is not its beauty it is its voice.
This is the Lyrebird, the master of borrowed sound.
It can steal any sound it has ever heard. From the heart-rending shriek of a hunting hawk, the rustling of a flock’s wings, to the roaring thunder of a waterfall. But what is most astonishing, even chilling, is when its throat echoes the sounds of the modern world with terrifying precision: the chilling bite of a chainsaw gnawing at a tree trunk, the dry, stark click of a camera. It is a living recording machine, a mirror reflecting every sound that has ever touched its world.
For millions of years, this mimicry was a pure instinct for survival. It was a way to out-sing rivals, to woo mates in complex dances, to mask fear with the borrowed strength of a predator’s call. Its song was once the pristine symphony of the forest alone.
But now, that symphony carries the echoes of humanity.
In the Lyrebird's song today, one can hear the sounds of the very machines tearing down its home. The ghost of human presence is etched into its birdsong, turning a natural wonder into a somber chronicle.
The Lyrebird's song is no longer just a song. It is a memory carved into soundwaves. Every note it sings is both the beauty of creation and a profound warning.
It is a voice that serves as living proof that the forest is not silent.
It is listening. And repeating.
