Highway

On a highway along the Atlantic I'm rifling through these last seventeen years The radio waxes romantic, its lullabies fill our eyes with tears We don't say a word There's nothing to say that hasn't been heard And how you've grown my little bird I'm regretting letting you fly Six pounds and seven ounces, a ball of bones and flesh and tears were you Now your hands, your tiny pink hands, grew larger than my hands ever grew We don't say a word There's nothing to say that hasn't been heard And how you've grown my little bird I'm regretting letting you fly I'm regretting letting you fly I'm regretting letting you fly On a highway, on a highway --- Highway - Ingrid Michaelson