fledged ovenbird One fledgling song sparrow, chasing after his harried mother, mouth still wide as a clown’s red smile. It’s astounding how quickly their faces change—first hardly more than an open pit swirling with hungry gravity, but soon so sleek with a pointed beak perfect for catching insects mid-air and crushing the hard bodies of seeds. He calls for his mother to feed him, and she arrives in a rush of feathers to shove lunch down his greedy throat. How soon his hunger will be his own. How soon he will be left to forage. One day, one day soon, he will call and call and call, and no one will answer but the predatory grumble of the hunger that will be his for the rest of his days. 260515 what's it to you? who go blather from