Inside their migration before en masse they took off
I was their rest stop, grounding, belvedere.
Bone-bare branches scratching the roof
suddenly leafed with black chattering starlings.
The light must have slanted just so, the window
reflecting them thousandfold back on themselves,
eyes darting, bodies waddling, heads
cocked and wings rustling and humming—
time to move on, they whispered, thousands
thousands, not me.
Published in Sugar Mule
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