Murmur
It begins with
a murmur, slight,
a wake,
a softness,
birdsong faint
beyond the glass,
rising into chorus,
togetherness,
rapt.
We listen as pale morning
yawns open.
In the east a murmur
of starlings
takes flight.
Words painted in the skies,
a pure language
written to be rewritten
and erased
once more.
In their conjuring,
complex patterns of
open wings.
Copyright Vickie Johnstone, August 9 2020 (August 7)
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