What the magpie said

Whistle a magpie song
Count almost to seven
As she bends a wing
The ash and char long after fire
In that dancing way
With a tilted query
To ask only this;
You have neither tongue
Nor beak, to sing a newfound morning
Nor yet a rise of quills to make
Of the swell of day a flight
From merriment to soaring
Yet with a caw of half-broke voice
You pretend to sing
I will turn, and bow and pause and carefully watch and wonder
In the narrows of bird-caution
Is this a mockery in your voice
Or the joy of worship?