Starlings in Winter
Chunky and noisy,
but with stars
in their black feathers,
they spring from the telephone wire
and
instantly
they are acrobats
in the
freezing wind.
And now, in the theater of air,
they swing over
buildings,
dipping and rising;
they float
like one stippled star
that opens,
becomes for a moment
fragmented,
then closes again;
and you
watch
and you try
but you simply can’t imagine
how they do it
with no
articulated instruction, no pause,
only the silent confirmation
that they
are this notable thing,
this wheel of many parts, that can
rise and spin
over and over again,
full of gorgeous life.
Ah, world, what lessons you prepare
for us,
even in the leafless winter,
even in the ashy city.
I am
thinking now
of grief, and of getting past it;
I feel my boots
trying to leave
the ground,
I feel my heart
pumping hard. I want
to think again of dangerous and
noble things.
I want to be light and frolicsome.
I want to be improbably
beautiful and afraid of nothing,
as though I had wings.
~ Mary Oliver ~
(Owls and Other Fantasies: Poems
and Essays)
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