Starlings In Flight
After peppering a tower of light
the flight froths over.
A bloom of wings falling,
then,
the dark shower
turning as one.
Puddles of sky splash open
speckled by black flint heads.
Wings spume.
Better I don't know
if this dance is choreographed
or a grace
thrown from the very thing
that is flung.
Better a dazzled surmise.
I want only
to feel what those dark foils feel
as they carve out space,
then turn (seeking nothing),
into a spiraling carousel;
as a visual vowel of wonder.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2021
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