The starlings hover and break, on the white
sky like black stars, in shifting constellations
of Great Bear and the Minor, their winged sleight
dissolving and forming, their ululations
of delight mingling in their ecstasy
of script, the poems of exquisite meter
the eye’s critical faculty to see
no false display, perfection to the letter.
Below, the trees are lifted, still as prayer,
taking vision by storm as their own heaven,
attuning the step to their mystical air
and starlings spin; with these times breaking even,
even as I breathe and walk, and view all life
in houses, children, the world and his wife.
