He has seized the most dramatic eminence in the valley as his stage and filled the place with a series of stupendous performances every single day this week. He seems utterly conscious of his own greatness and stands there, strong, confident, and completely engrossed in the wonder of song. Ladies and gentlemen: I give you Turdus Superstar.

I mean no coarse jest. Turdus is a thrush, the thrush family is Turdidae, and the bird behind the stable block at the tree's summit is Turdus philomelos: the song thrush. Some birders jestingly refer to song turd, along with mistle turd, and for that matter, blackturd. But song thrushes are what they are, song is what they do: and right now, the world is full of the sound of their voices.

Repetition. That's the key to it. All musicians love repetition: so too do journalists, at least where their own jokes are concerned. But the song thrush has made repetition the core of his creative genius. The song thrush is the one that sings each song twice over, lest you thought he never could recapture the first fine careless rapture.

A song thrush finds a phrase he likes, and then sings it three, four, five times. Then he hits on another, and does it all over again. Listen out anywhere in this country where there is a bit of green and the odd tree, and you will probably hear a song thrush endless recapturing its first fine careless rapture.

The song is a personal triumph for each and every bird. A song is both learnt and innate: the shape and format are hard-wired, but the phrases and their elaborations are mostly learnt. A champion singer such as my stable superstar will have around 100 variations.

Many of the phrases have a near-human quality: did he do it? Did he do it? The illusion that the thrush is singing for humans rather than thrushes is almost perfect: no other singer seems so determined to carry his audience with him. It's the repetitions that do it: that, and the bird's clamorous nature.

So here's the message: hurry now if you want to help to wipe out song thrushes. Under incoming legislation, you will soon be unable to pave your front garden for a car space; so naturally, plenty of people are trying to beat the law: and who can blame them? Imagine the joy of owning your very own car park!

In London, an area the size of 22 Hyde Parks has been concreted over to make front-garden car parks; one fifth of the front gardens across the country have gone. But every front garden, however scrappy, however unlovely, is jumping with invertebrates: food for many birds including song thrushes, gourmet birds that love a good escargot above all things. The RSPB is urging people to place beauty and thrushes above concrete and convenience and, like a song thrush, I listen, create my own version, sing it and then repeat it. Don't do it, don't do it.

The superstar continued to sing out behind the stables: singing for the reasons humans sing, for love, because his heart is full. I heard the song in between the musical binks and bonks of the farrier's hammer, for it was the day the horses were shod: a timeless medley. And my heart in hiding stirred for a turd: for if I can't repeat a joke when I am writing about a song thrush, when can I?

Meanwhile, at the top of what we in Suffolk call a hill, Turdus Superstar recaptured, for the millionth time, the first fine careless rapture.

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