Writing on the Wall

At three pm.
chattering bird babble
shakes us from the house,
a flying orchestra,
one thousand morphing birds
swirl and settle in the Ash.
 
A dressing of Starlings
trinket up bare boughs;
notes on a score,
cut out sihouettes
feathers flat and pointing south.
 
This tree-break interval
this high-way rest
for winging minstrels,
one body in their flight
their score and song.
 
A silent siren call,
the branches shift
and shadows lift in shoals,
mid verse, move on.