Gill Horitz
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Murmuration
waiting for starlings
when the phone rang
and her voice was blown
by the blue air into my ear,
speaking about the past
which wouldn’t leave her,
a kind of punishment,
she was saying, to be unknown
or alone, the wind
made it hard to hear.
I was still listening at four-thirty
when the air chilled, fell inert
as birds appeared
on the same wavelength
as dusk, accumulating
in swathes, each one
dependent on the nearest.
If she could see what starlings
make of themselves, bound
by their own instinct.
Published in Words for the Wild