As the days grow shorter and the last of sunlight fades, 

The flight of starlings, murmurations, begins. 

Several-thousand strong, the starlings dance in the sky—

Swaying, twisting, gliding.

And over there is our violet-backed starling,

Not large from this distance. A blade of grass, a weed.

Wings—broken—now into silent, wounded parts.

Each attempt is a dance in vain.

It’s difficult to prevent its neck from craning upward, 

But dark-green does not clash well with the starling’s

Plum-violet plumage changed purple-blue under the sky.

Nor do the hands of insecurity’s incessant chatter 

Intertwine well with the starling’s melodic music,

Born into the grace of words.

For now, it stays perched on the remainder of winter’s teeth,  

And silently watches from a distance, 

A field of magic, black hollyhock.