goodness, what does it mean
to be settled? i idly consider
adopting a patch of daffodils
near my home, scribble the
city number on my wrist as i
slow my steps behind my
akbash. his world is the size
of my three daily decisions to
take him out, so i pause &
unhurry myself, & my steps
settle in the soft earth. ahead,
like lightning you hear before
you see its source, an ash tree
thunders in starling song. eight
stories high & towering above
the neighbouring church, the
tree is bare from the mid-winter
rhythm of season, but flickers
between shades of black as
wings consider the balance of
flight melody. i’m told starlings are
invasive, but in truth, so am i, so i
watch the murmuration pour
upwards into the mid-morning sky.
i am still thinking of their singular
birdsong hours later, its exquisite
mimicry of human speech & other
birds, sirens & cell phones, & a
backdrop of two-tones held in
a single throat. i imagine this,
this wonder for the ubiquity
which once lived hidden
from me, would fall to the
altar of settling. i imagine ageing
into a woman struck by
lightning at the foot of an ash
tree, tears at her chin from the
cinema of a starling, would be
counted, too. but then i imagine
housing such a patchwork nature
of sound within myself and a
dovetail of wonder and joy to be
alive to witness such things becomes
the only song.
CarnivalDark 