hungry

The empty pods of the Rose of Sharon, still attached to the twigs, which you find on almost every block in Brooklyn, remind me of the wide open beaks of baby birds. Except of course that the pods aren't begging, but offering. As if the mother or father bird were to open wide and let the babies eat out of its mouth. Does that happen?

Birds' mouths are very busy this time of year, even before the babies, once fattened on yolk alone, become afflicted with the terrible and beautiful hunger of life. I saw a male cardinal so high in a tree by the lake it was as if he'd vied for the highest position possible, like some of the billboards you see along the highways which appear to have been launched by NASA. His song was sweet and clear, and if I were a little lady bird I'd be there, no doubt. Later on 11th Avenue a sparrow flew past me, its mouth full of raggedy tatters of scraps and grass. I suppose they're crafty builders, those sparrows, they're certainly good survivors. I'd love to watch them weave.