Murmuration
A word to love: “Murmuration,” a kaleidoscope
of Starlings sweeping and swooping. Call it poetry,
call it a song, call it mesmerizing as a cloud
of black-tipped wings spreads and funnels -
an avian air show beyond the window
where we watch, distracted from
our morning activities,
our earthly anchors,
our wishful
vespers.
Some say this mass movement protects the flock
from prey; others say it’s an ornithological banquet,
a coffee klatsch, a swirl of chatty birds jazzed up
on fermented blackberries or ripened rose hips;
still others say it’s an invite, “Hey, over here,
we’ve got grubs, we’ve got bugs, we’ve got food
to spare, come on.”
Our murmurs know no such performance;
warped heartbeats from blood flowing
through tight valves or vessels blocked
like summer traffic or tourists gawking
at an accident. Only a stethoscope
can pick out our heart sound –
When my lover murmurs in his sleep,
mostly it sounds like distress, a bad dream
playing out alone in the theater of melatonin
that he can’t remember to share in the morning.
Starlings, you socialites, your swarms invite other families -
together, gregarious aviators, you mimic red-tailed hawks, quails,
Bobwhite crows and more, humans, phones, car alarms. Oh, Starlings,
original chat GPT, you out-Bot us all with your winged iridescence,
your stand-up, beat-all communal voice, your seminal song dance,
while we, ground-bound, watch you
from below, our hearts tick-ticking as we hopefully
flap our missing wings.
Ellen M. Taylor teaches writing and literature at the University of Maine at Augusta, an open access university, and in the Maine Prison Education Program. She has published in regional and national journals and has three poetry collections published by Moon Pie Press. She lives in the hills of Appleton, Maine.
Amethyst Review 