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  • carlyand2

The Starlings Came to Antioch

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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