THE BIRDS

Tectonic snow
Undulates on the horizon
Like a mirage as a wave of starlings
Rises and falls in flocks over the sunlit ground.

Swoop after swoop they
Chatter in tree tops, ascend,
Descend onto the greening earth,
Black wings beating to the pulse of spring.

Screeching a new season,
Thousands in throngs (millions
Strong) reprise this ritual surrounding
My home and elsewhere, their awesome rhythms.

If the urge to peck
Possessed these avian swarms
A blink would mark my passing, but
Not a mad March, scary, cyclical, athanasia.