Starlings have no claim to what’s called beauty
except when earth flings them out in a bolt
of black silk unfurling across the sky, reaching,
curling back, convolving as if in a sinuous
wind from one great mind. Probably
defensive, says science: they become a vast
murmuring winged darkness, scattering
the direst hawk intentions. How often
the remarkable turns out to be protective.
The living shield themselves in color, light,
magnitude, in performance, in the guise
of something else. As girls we learned the trees
were full of hawks. If we got small enough,
we were assured, they’d overlook us. We’d make
our way to safety. What If we’d been told
that in the hawkeyed glare of danger we might
grow enormous, become something huge.
Something huge, and beautiful.