Flight of the Starlings
I saw an omen grinning up at me
From the bottom of my cup
Little dried-up pine needles
Swimming in perfect geometry
Buzzing against the skin of my eyes
And I held in gentle hands
A cupful of the grey sky
With one great wobbling drop of molten metal swirling inside
I was two pupils punched into the place where my face ought to be
the sky got bigger above my head
all those flittering wings one square of static
Black shadows passed in mathematical spirals and weird discs
Maddeningly slow and orderly
that random drone humming in every direction was a comfort
Reminded me that my feet were still on the ground
When fishes swarmed through me
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