Starlings by Jacky Kennedy

The ‘townies’ haven’t graced our garden

for years, but now we’re faced with them.

Maybe they left town in a swirling murmuration,

rising and falling, twisting and calling,

gradually leaving the flock to nest.

Beige leaves from pampas grass

gathered under the hedge. A starling lifts

them into our airspace, under the eaves

leaving long strands fluttering like

streamers over the gutter.

He worries a leaf, turns it into a coil

that roils over his head, circles his body.

Sun turns his chest purple and green

like oil on water. White speckles on his wings,

are like stars in a night sky.

He tacks the lawn pushing his pointed beak

into the grass. There has been a dry spell

but an overnight downpour has softened

baked earth and now he stabs his stiletto

deeply into a yielding soil.

Down the garden path a broken pale blue

shell. This batch has hatched.