to the fierce
wild angles
and delirious
verve of their
iridescent bodies,
hordes of starlings
have begun
to swarm the branches
of the bare tulip
poplar trees
every afternoon
to flap and gossip
in madcap anticipation
of the new season.
For a moment, there is
not a scrap of silence
or of room;
then, the spell breaks,
and the murmuration
dissipates
as the world at large
exhales, relaxes,
and moves on,
forgetting
for the nth time, as it
mercifully must,
that there's still so many
small gods at large
on the planet—
and yet
so little heaven.
