Song tree.
At 3 pm
chattering bird-babble
shakes us from the house,
a flying orchestra,
one thousand
morphing birds swirl over,
to settle in the Ash.
A dressing of Starlings
trinket up bare boughs;
notes on a score,
black cut-out’s,
feather flat
all facing south.
This tree-break interval
this highway rest
for winging minstrels,
one body in their flight
their perch, their song.
A silent siren call
and branches lift,
as shadows rise in shoals,
mid-verse, move on.
B.Fry