the blue muse

The starlings have come, either late this year, or simply on their way through to somewhere else, or perhaps they are hanging out in my yard because the swamp is dried up and they are thirsty.

I put bird baths out with a cringe, knowing they may make it easier for my naughty kitten to hunt, and hope for the best.

As I sit in my studio, working away, the shadows of these starlings cross my window, one, two, and then dozens, hundreds.

I run outside to watch them swoop and fly in a great living cloud, my own private murmuration.

They land on a wire, evenly spaced, and chatter and wait, planning their next move.

Autumn creeps in on wings of fancy.