User Poem Archive

Starlings - 2009-07-17 09:55:53

Sara Gettys
Starlings, a man told me, are
the world’s trash bird, common
as the widows in the bingo hall
day after day, loud
as the middle school cafeteria
with its gossip and hurt, unremarkable
as woman who sits on the corner, hunched
and wearing too many sweaters.

He does not see the quick and precise
scissor of wing, tailoring wind to body, he does not
see the glimmer of dark rainbows or secrets
on the small breast, or the eyes
which miss nothing, which know
when danger is near. He
has never grasped the topmost branch,
standing outlined against the sky, owning nothing.

Yesterday, I paused in the middle of a dirt road
and from the orchard nearby, the starlings rose, too many
to count. They left their words in the apple trees,
abandoned their complaints and announcements,
adopted a simpler language of feather
and air. Above me, turning, that dark collective being
became silver, the weight of suspicion
left behind. This is what I would tell that man: fear
is common enough, but so too flight,
and joy.

Mary@Mar 25, 2010 03:54 pm

Nice poem. I am not a huge fan of starlings, but will look at them a little more kindly now.