Their sound is startled water:
of starlings troubling the air.
They move as one mind--whirling,
Does one bird decide, then the rest
its thinking in their wings?
Or do they all quicken to a handclap in the trees,
a September smell,
If the first circle is the eye, the second is
wheeling from tree to tree,
grey cloth behind them, autumn grizzling in.
Truly they are water gargling air, dense
water, unsettled as I am,
this season's old troubles
whispers secrets in our ear.