Air,

churned in a blur

and stir of wings;

the back yard darkens.

Comedic clatter

of squawks and hiccups

and slide-whistle song.

The starlings arrive —

collect an offering

of days’ old cornbread

scattered —

like fool’s gold —

in haphazard pattern

over broken snow.

Goldenrod legs and

stiletto beaks

stalk and stab each

crumb until,

as one,

the flock lifts

in unpredicted tide

of departure.

— C.Birde, 1/18