It's there in the swirl of starlings
when day gives up its secrets at sundown
and it's there as brake-lights follow
brake-lights down a hill around a bend
give or take a lane no prior consent
or future commitment,
there saying kaddish, I listen for cues
from strangers, can somehow feel them
as we step together
then apart, even there onscreen
in a pixelated follow the leader of favorites,
it must be how we look to God
as we blunder about, that swoop and roll
of plans and scams, war and peace,
dashes or dots on an over-folded map,
it's anywhere except alone, cannot happen
beyond an empty glass despair,
but starts in silence as the barest dance
and builds like static before a kiss
the way a field of yellow wildflowers
almost holds the world.
Poet’s Notes: I fell in love with the sound of the word “murmuration” even before I knew that it refers to a flock of starlings flying together in huge and amazing patterns. But how do these birds know how to do that? Or for that matter, how do people – friends, loved ones, or even complete strangers – know how to come together to form long-lasting or fleeting communities of encounter and experience?
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