The remnants of a wedding
dangle and dance from the branches
of the oaks where the starlings
gather in droves—silky black baubles
among the last gray leaves.
They bank and turn in ballet grace,
with no instruction, no victor
in the race to make a tree their own.
They come to roost in the golden time
of the sun’s soon slumber, the night’s descent.
They leave in a rush of wind,
a breath that fills their lungs
as it steals away mine, and the sky
is black and gold and siren blue
as the static fades to silence.
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