Murmuration

In the uncertain evening sky, 
both clear and cloud-strewn,
with strands of sunlight
stroking the changing skyscape,
it is at first a murmur
as they fly in, the starlings.

A few to start, and then some more, 
followed  by ‘fledgling’ flocks
seeming to target the taut, tense skyline;
gathering above the reeds, 
and signalling as if by semaphore
for further flocks.

They are collecting, quicker now,
creating shifting shapes, growing greater
by the minute: countless congregations
of extraordinary movement
and complexity. Collision-free.

In these radar-rich surroundings
the decibels are mounting
as the patterns thicken, seeming
to grow denser as they swirl and spin
and somersault.  An assault in every sense
upon our eyes and ears.  

Speechless, we watch this avian assembly,
in wonderment.  Orgiastic and unruly,
thrilling and visceral, it goes on and on,
astonishing.

And then, without a warning,
it stops. 

In their thousands, they drop down into the reeds,
to roost.  The volume too declines to twittering, 
to chattering, to murmuring.
Then, nothing.

It is time to leave.  In the dusk, 
we steal back in silence, thoughtful, 
humbled by this spectacle 
or maybe what - whatever our beliefs -
we’d call a miracle.