Our rate of arboreal motherhood is getting out of hand,
with every brand new nestling cheeping to beat the band.
They lift their buoyant little songs to bob upon the air,
at least three tiny gaping beaks in each lofty lair,
pleading for some sustenance—a cricket or a worm
gathered from a garden plot or a roadside berm.
Mother bird and father bird chirping out their greeting
as though to give assurance of every round of eating.
This ear-splitting chorus merely nature’s way
to provide an overture to announce the day.