blackbirds rise
to grey october as they have
and will, gathering in

worshiping flocks
growing in number, moving
with one thought, as one
body.

they are in numbers
such that the sound of wing
and caw, blankets me
below

in the mystery that lies
beneath the beauty,
above both,
the precision.

and i stand struck with no question,
mixed fear and gratitude,
praising as them,
the same god.

so well choreographed the performance
spectacular shapes they perfectly make
soaring up then dipping down this sky dance
synchronized on a collective feather's take

outstanding describes every single formation
orchestrated with an amazing flight's wing
over the countryside you'll see the murmuration
on staying together it repels a falcon's ping

utilizing the waving motion's code of sway
unbalancing any hungry prey by such skill
utmost this inventive pattern's display
undulations devised in an expert drill

the ballet on high is ever so terrific
trooped starlings cleverly will bluff
they'll outsmart predators prolific
trancing them with adept birdie stuff

The snow,
  Whirls,
Spins,
And turns;
Shapes in the air.
A floating, flowing, fluidity;
Such substance in something
   So diaphanous.
           A performance,
          Just as magical as
     The starlings
They had watched
At dusk
By the pier.

      Swooping
         And gliding
     The birds
  Danced in the darkening sky.
  That erratic black cloud;
  Morphing, flowing, conjuring...
        Forming new dimensions
          While the glowing sun
               Balances precariously,
                   Poised on the edge of the world
                                                              And then
                                                                            Sinks,
                                                                         Into the sea,
                                                                        Leaving pink
                                                                     Goodbye kisses
                                                                       On the clouds.
  Now,
Two figures are
Stood by the window,
Looking out and
Watching
  The crystal dust drift
   Within the flow of the wind.
      A giant ghost's display of ballet;
         Spinning, twisting, turning...
                                  Leaning on each other
                                In silence,
                                In the darkness,
                               The skies' cold ashes
                               Sparkle
                             In the night,
                       Under the rays of the artificial
                    Street light
                      Outside.

Soon the train will leave the station,
Get further and further away...
Settling in the west for longer than a day.
Swallowed by the horizon.
Physics in the way.
                                                          She will freeze her face
                                                          And wave,
                                                          Borrowing a stoic's smile,
                                                          Safely held together,
                                                           Until within the veil
                                                           Of the warm taxi home,
                                                            Her eyes
                                                            Melt.