Starling murmuration

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