The Starlings
by Eliza Farley
Swift, sleek, darting to and fro—
the starlings group in a thrumming cluster,
small bodies forming a larger body,
blacking out the clouds, the sky.
I have seen it only once before.
Today, it is incomplete. Before,
the starlings were as one,
simply one large bird in the sky,
no cluster, no thrumming.
The bird slithered down my throat and
touched my heart, in the middle
of it, that’s how it felt to me.
Me and my heart and I—
me and the bird. Us, one, no cluster.
No clouds. No sky.
Today, it is incomplete. But,
still, I feel in the middle of my heart—
there, that emptiness
where the large bird used to be—
there, I feel a small body turning
into a larger body, one
with gaps between the joints
where the sky shines through.
Still, I hold this moment
over my memory like a suncatcher:
seizing that which slides over so quickly,
reflecting it inward a thousand times,
brighter and more colorful,
until it becomes something new entirely.