Come, and trip it as ye go,
On the light fantastick toe
—John Milton, from L'Allegro
Surrounded by their
chatter, we note we haven’t
seen the starlings
after dusk,
a whirl of black-
on-black,
how pointless that would
be, while Sol is on its errand
to warmly soak
the other side—
the Philippines,
Australia,
the islands of the rising
red.
They sleep inverted
with their eyes
toward the ground, you’ve heard.
Like the bats. Have you ever seen
the bats?
My phobia
won’t allow it, I respond,
something about the
flight of ghastly rats
but by then you’re back
to talk about the star-
lings:
They trip the light fantastic
while it’s day,
trying for a million years
to get our
attention.
As to what they might be
saying you simply shrug.
We’d be indifferent
to their warnings, think we
know it all
when it comes to love.
Sunlings,
you conclude,
that’s what we should've
called them, so we'll
heed at last the
nightly murmuration
of the stars—
so slow to our perception
but at the sprint
and dash of light,
their wings of silver-
white, every feather
standing
on its head,
revealing the world
is upside-down
and only the birds
have twirled to see it.
Andreas Gripp
January 16, 2025
RF Image
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