Riding with my family in the '58 Buick, I can still recall how we'd drive through the valley to my grandmother's house every summer vacation when I was small,
And I'd gaze out the window at the farms and the orchards, counting the telephone poles pa**ing by,
And the sound of our motor would frighten the starlings, and they'd rise from the fields to fly,
My mother would grumble, "Those birds are a curse; they're a thorn in the farmers' side,"
But I couldn't help feeling sad and inspired by their desperate ballet in the sky.
Say a prayer for the starlings,
The hot, dry wind beats their ragged wings,
Have a thought for the starlings,
No one ever listens to the songs they sing,
Say a prayer for the starlings,
There's no welcome for them anywhere,
Leave some crumbs for the starlings,
They say that winter will be cold this year.
She was sitting on a curb by the 7 Eleven; she asked if I had some spare change,
Her skin wore that leathered and wind-burned look, and the light in her blue eyes was wild and strange,
I sat down beside her and asked her her name,
She said, "Pick one you like; I need something to eat,"
And her life made me think of the dead leaves in autumn drifting like ghosts down the street,
Is the life that we celebrate only a dream, a lie that we serve like a god made of stone?
And our hearts are the hunter,
Birds with no nesting place, weary and aching for home.
Say a prayer for the starlings,
The hot, dry wind beats their ragged wings,
Have a thought for the starlings,
No one ever listens to the songs they sing,
Say a prayer for the starlings,
There's no welcome for them anywhere,
Leave some crumbs for the starlings,
They say that winter will be cold this year, this year.