They paint the sky with swoop
and fall, with pirouette and jeté,

bird ribbons synchronized
in a dusky cloud shortly

before sunset, perhaps to
keep warm, to whisper

where to find food, all in
preparation for sleep.

They have no leader;
they follow no plan,

but if you stop to watch
a mumuration of starlings,

look up and listen well—
your limited ears might

detect the whispers of
of thousands of wingbeats

and soft flight calls, fluid
poetry written on the sky

in a whoosh of wings.