Art by Andrea Worthey
Back before the pandemic I was having a bad day. Felt I was failing as a husband. Had a daughter in distress far from home and calling for comfort. Another daughter on the edge of change. I needed sunlight. I stepped outside into a beautiful summer afternoon. First thing I saw was an indigo bunting, dead in the grass. So I headed back into my little room above the garage and wrote this song. It’s about trying to do better. About how memories can sustain us. About letting daughters fly.
Someday if time and circumstance allow, we’ll record this song properly. The version here is just me and my younger daughter—many of you know her as Jane—sitting down in front of a single mic, having a go at it to see if we can find some harmonies. A scratch vocal, they call it. Because you start from scratch. You do the polishing and perfecting later. I like these rough versions because no matter where you end up it’s good to remember where you started.
Sometimes I wish I didn’t feel things the way I do. Wish I was tougher. Thicker skinned. But I’m also grateful when a few chords and a handful of words can free me up, get me back on track. And that I have daughters to sing beside me.
LITTLE BIRD
Little birdDead in the grassFlew too farFlew too fastDo you rememberGave you my wordI used to call youLittle birdYou no longer singBut I still hear your wingsBeating in the blackBeating in the blueBeating back to me and youLittle birdAt the edge of the nestCrazy little heartBeating in your chestDo you rememberOur bedtime prayerWherever you goI’ll meet you there
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