Starlings Descend
They flow out of a pocket of sky,
a door in the air no one saw
until dark wings shower
our heads.
Their plumage a metallic sheen,
as if they were made in parts,
in some elvish workshop, their wings
hammered on an iron last.
No starling is a starling alone;
it is a thousand, any number
too fleet to count.
They land where they please.
See them strut like dinosaurs,
eyes as black as a total eclipse.
Owl, eagle, and hawk fear to draw near,
for look, the starling throng
has descended here.
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