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.