murmuration

i have decided that i can't 
understand ballet dancers,

somewhere you're sitting &
sewing the tips of your shoes

walk on wood not water,
that's what god meant.

a murmuration of starlings 
dances in the ceiling of 

my bedroom. the birds seem
much farther away than physically

possible, tiny pin-prick bodies,
oscillating in a massive moving 

sculpture. today, i steal 
your ballet shoes & walk like

a bird out into the morning
to get the paper. i'm not graceful 

enough to be a starling, maybe 
a morning dove or a pigeon. i feed

the starlings each day when 
i come home so that they'll

keep dancing. i bring pints
of blackberries & sliced apples.

they swoop down one at a time
so as to not disturb the ballet.

i play Mozart from my phone
as i watch them & they move 

to the pull of the music. 
when you come visit i put

the starlings in the closet
& from outside i can feel them 

dancing. i caress the knob,
i put my ear to door, i say 

give me just one moment &
then i'll be out

& i sit on the closet floor
to look up at the starlings.

one day i'll show them to you
& we'll break apart into

our own flocks of birds.
then will you show me how

they know to move like that?