Gathering
Starlings churn and murmur, rise
in honeyed light, engulf the barren oak
in iridescent longing. They call
maps and messages from bird
to bird, menace hawks as they cyclone
from one patch of corn to the next, fuel
flight as ice flutes wail in the north,
coalesce around one magnetic thought
that twangs muscle, pulses wingbeat, drums
in the firmament: south, south, south, south.
