"…where j'da get those peepers?"
Well, I know where they are. They're outside my window, nestled inside of street signs, in the trees, crying high and plaintive above my head.
For the past few weeks, I've heard the non-stop peeping of baby birds. They're huddled inside their homes, tiny knots of down, wondering where the size and the warmth of their parents have gone. Stupefied, they do the only thing their forlorn DNA tells them to do.
So when I hear those little sounds of woe, I can't help but worry about their confusion. I can't help but think about their parents, searching the tight-fisted city for their childrens' meals.
But I also can't help but think: "Your babies are frightened! They're hungry! They're lonely! It's time you were home!"