In Somerset, on frosty January morning’s, the starlings come…
It is like she has discovered the moon.
Waves in the sky descend and dive. Air fish
speckled shoals of dappled dark
as husky morning stirs on the marsh.
Each, a single note in a phrase, all swell
as one, plummet
and rise again. – and the noise! More than wind
rushing through pines – more than waves
crashing to shore. Their myriad
of wings whistle and whir
the scent of silence to swelling squall.
Then, the murmur fades to grey,
light mist across the marshlands.
Morning is broken, the silence un-frozen. As we
trudge back to shadowy cars, our chatter overrides
the song of birds.