when thousands of starlings come together in one spot to swap migration war stories
They brought with them the sound of the air
wrapping the light in their wings like a veil faced widow
over and under from inside the dampness the sea cackles them to life.
What horizon spitting out buzz burdened insects, claps hands
again towards the peak as if escaping from needles? The fabric of the sky crinkles, curls, cuts
a face; the light milky irises, the Cyclops sky blinks with birds.
Coiling about themselves a helix, thrown into the air, one’s regretful words:
they glide, catching a fellow’s wing with a beak or a claw.
Lifting bones and down when caught themselves with another’s unsympathetic bladed talon.
Wheezing in the claustrophobia of networks; coughing up the choreography of instinct.
Animism wrought need: chemistry, history gnawing at the feather stems until all of them an airborne, coiling flailing, sailing, soot-colored nimbus.