Starlings in Epiphany Snow
They come at dusk,
squawking in dark ominous circles,
a constant swirl of swooping activity
that demands distracted attention
until they settle into branches of beauty
to cling like dark knots
clogging sapped trees.
They are gathering like Advent darkness
in a world gone mad,
waiting . . .
like bombers for orders to Iraq.
Something unknown startles
and they fly, a retreating dark cloud
in protest-screech against grey skies
leaving . . .
leaving bare intricate trees
wrapped up in spring dreams
dusted with brilliant snow
gleaming in the silent light
of a single streetlamp,
an urban Christ candle
illumining the Way
for snowflakes dancing in delight
of momentary peace.
© 2003 Tess Lockhart. All rights reserved.