Gillian Stone
Gone
Out of the brazen field
a thousand starlings rise
straight up from the ground
like scattered shot.
Suddenly caught by the curve
of the movement west
they cloud away into the sun
through the evening air.
The silence is filled with their stir
and when they are gone
the boy on the flat rough rock
still hears their shadowed sound.
The echo of chattering stays,
the siffle of wings,
a hole in the damp dark night
where the starlings were.
Page(s) 136
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