William Bedford
Starlings
Slanting through the half light
of winter, a snow storm
piles against the house,
gathering and regathering to stone.
All night, the starlings chatter
in the cold. A fox,
lurking from hill to farm,
listens to the noise.
A weasel in the grass whines.
And in our loft, shaking
the equilibrium of stone,
a dozen starlings, wheeling
through the splintered light.
At dawn, the explosion
is over. The fox
and the hill slide home.
Page(s) 68
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