The starlings are back in coal-smudged November
I watch them murmurate, peck branches, shingles off
a roof. They bulge and brigade against the ground.
We fought again. You left and I am here at the front
window watering the fourth ivy I’ve killed this
winter, too delicate for the way we chaos. My
Mother says wives should be like sandhill cranes,
their long necks and pair-bonded mates but I’ve
always been a hundred birds set loose in a park.
Outside the starlings gather in startling numbers before
the bend of their ascent warps them upward. They rest
en masse, stretched along telephone lines. When they leave,
one never makes it off the line. Her claws catch
raw electricity on a split wire; her body falls.
Clouds darken, mountains ready for rain.
