(or Other Silly Reasons to Call Home)
Last light of day retreats
Sky of monochrome
The mist moves in sheets
That swaddle the earth
Hiding by the hearth, we find
Quiet on the streets
Starlings take to sky
In vast configurations
What do we call those birds, mom–
the name for a flock of birds?
Starlings dive and float in synchrony
Calling sky their home
A cloud of mystery
that enraptures me
Wanting not for hearth or time
Simply meeting needs
Traveling as one holy exultation
What do we call those birds, mom–
the name for the flock of birds?
We saw starlings together one time
A moment that is frozen in my mind
They wove together in an intricate dance
Should I call you to ask you again?
Holly Kirsten, November 2019