starlings murmur in the sky, sing and chirp,
rise and roll, and with a wing in turn
each one follow the neighbour, and the next one to the seventh
turn and twist, swoop and soar
from the first to the seventh to the forty-ninth.
as a child you tried counting the starlings in the sky.
starlings murmur at twilight at winter
reach for the horizon and the sky, and heavens.
you gape and gasp, you hold them dear
at twilight you count you blessings.
for now you stop counting starlings or years
you only marvel at beauty that mocks the time
you breathe with the rhythm of eternity.
a falcon dives in surprise, to strike to snatch to kill
but starlings rise and fall and flap and
shape an oak, a home and a sanctuary, that
open branches to nestle to protect to shield
the little souls of starlings.
little blessings they are.
and starlings shape a girl gazing at the sky and
counting the starlings time and again,
turns to a woman to a mother.
she sins, she is destined to mortality
yet the child she yields is sweeter than the apple
she open hands to cuddle to protect to nurture
and starlings shape the child who is
to grow an young oak to place the old the blighted the felled
to open innocent eyes wide in wonder
and count these starlings.
and starlings knit a lace of time beyond
the fleeting moment the passing body
the sign, regardless blessing or warning
you hold the moment you hold the starlings dear.
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