At twilight scrawny starlings screech
like harpies hunting empty streets,

braid trees and ledges in high-pitched fuss,
knotting in rows at hollow dusk

like charcoal beads tightly queued
entreating night's protective hood,

unless a hawk-cry snaps their thread
and black beads scatter, half unsaid.

07/15/2012

Posted on 07/15/2012
Copyright © 2024 William F Dougherty