“You could imagine a colossal mommy breast with three hundred nipples descending from the sky over upper Manhattan to nourish them back to action. “Feed me. . . !””
Just the other day a clutch of eggs hatched in a swallow’s next just outside my front door. They are all sitting quietly but with the slightest noise or rustle, they pop up open their mouths and make a racket. Doesn’t matter if mother bird is there or not. It’s just instinct. Open mouth and demand someone, anyone, put something in it. The difference is... . These little chicks will eventually fly out and learn to feed themselves. The crybullies at colleges cheering for terrorists, they’ll live on the hard work of other people their whole lives and never grow up.
I call them grasshoppers, fiddling summer away.