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 passing 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.