A murmuring a chattering a cluttering
we don’t see a thousand starlings
but the one flight of one manifestation:
the Idea of starlingness

When we awake at three thirty muttering
we stew the tea to talk over and wash down cake
to soften the blow of age and sleeplessness
we two starlings falling wingless to fate

We sigh at the beauty of the sweeping murmur
giving not one thought for the starlings’ fears
as they swoop down over the whisky brown river
that murmurs itself against the lonely pier

At this very moment our friends upon the limb
beyond the wall of perception that hems us in
laugh and sing and muse not on us
but on the mad Idea of mankindness

The song of starlings and their beautiful dance
flying away slows our hearts and stills
the vanities of me and you and a chance
that we no longer murmur with fluttering wills

We peer at murmur then we see
The secret of starling harmony