just before its clock tower
chimes the hour,
I pass a small pack
of starlings in the garden grass,
huddled in their daily practice
of warming-up
their murmurations—
and in that moment,
how I wish
that I could quit lurking
and dredge up the courage
to ask to join their choir.
I don't know the songs,
I'd admit off the bat—
yet I know how to sing,
and I swear that I'm
equal parts proud
and dismayed
as any blithe impulse
to praise would dictate
to confess
that I don't get at all
how that works.
