Poem #183

Untitled #5

Crowds of starlings stand
with idling wings ignoring
the bluejay mischief above.
They occasionally swirl up,
knee high like cold cream
falling in clear tea. There is no
sugar in the tea or real threat
to the starlings and so a new
arrangement is agreed upon:
some birds move into the bush
or away to find different seed.
The cup is white and filled
with amber liquid and cooling,
unperturbed despite all the chattering.

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