The Starlings Descend
They flow out of a pocket of sky,
a door in the air no one saw
until dark wings shower
over our heads.
Their plumage has a metallic sheen,
as if they were made in parts,
in some elvish workshop, their wings
hammered on last.
Wings that talk to other wings,
for no starling is a starling alone;
it is ten thousand starling clones
welded into flocks of feathers.
They descend where they please.
a road, a lawn, a parking lot,
they descend, and where they land
that is their land, their acre of lordship.
See them strut like dinosaurs,
eyes as black as an eclipse.
See them stab the light, push it away
until all that litters the ground
Owl, eagle and hawk fear to
draw near, for the flock is here,
and it will leave when it wants to.
We avoid the pecking mob,
hurry by, look away,
as another swarm of avian androids
stakes its claim upon the earth.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2020
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