A murmuration of starlings at Gretna, © Walter Baxter

I often wonder how it would’ve been
to fly, rising with a flap of wings
to gain a perspective on those things
I cannot here in my treeless valley.
I’m sure I would be a dull grey bird,
it’s just how I am. I’d have no
colorful plumage, no special song.
I’d be just another among
all my fellow dirt-hued ground pickers.

Except when we flew.

There we are notable in our cloud
of winged bodies that appears
for all the world like one grand being
whose slate-scratching calls become
a murmur.
You’d think us beautiful then,
though only memorable for about
half a mile, as you drove by us doing 70.

But I fly alone.

My song is a murmur, too,
the quiet voice you hear right now.
My plumage silver, surrounding
this hope that only soars over a world
within itself. No wings, though I dip and
soar above a heart that’s too often sore
but still carries rainbow memories
that could climb into the clouds
if you ever wondered, too.


3 thoughts on “Murmuring

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