Bless the Starlings

author’s note:

I don’t think they like me either.


BLESS THE STARLINGS

Yesterday I woke at dawn
with a sense of disturbance.
Looking out the window
I then saw the cause:

a hundred starlings loitered in my yard.

A foul fowl in my opinion:
traveling in herds, they shove out all the other birds.
Arrogant.  Ignorant.  Belligerent.
Their voices always full of complaint.

So I waved my arms
and shooed those devils away.

But they merely circled round
and settled back down on my lawn.

So again I waved and shouted.

Only to see the flock return moments later
with dozens more in its defiant chorus.

After two more tries
I finally said with a sigh:
“Okay you feathered fiends, you win.”

Then went inside.

But I could still hear
the racket of that flock—
the fidgety fluttering, the raspy chattering.

But what could I do?

I saw no other option
but to fall back on my bed
and try to accept what I’d rejected.
Maybe I could become accustomed
to the torture.
Then my anger might unclench its fist
and I would know calm within.

And indeed—
as I endured patiently
I felt the ruckus slowly settle down
to a dull innocuous murmuring.
Yes, I achieved a relative peace.

Then suddenly all grew still
both inside and out.

I realized the starlings had fled.
By surrendering, I’d won.

But that vacuum was soon filled
as my inner monologue began again—
amplified now by the quiet.

That spiel spills out
with hardly a pause
during my waking hours.
Sometimes the words come from
an elevated place.
But more often the words come
from a place lower down.
That’s not what I want to hear from myself.
But I haven’t found a way
to shut that base voice down.

Sometimes I’ll stop
and shoo that noise away.
But too soon the disturbance returns.

Yeah—
just like those starlings on my lawn yesterday.

My opinion of the species
remains pretty much the same
and yet, I bless them now—

through those birds perhaps I’ve learned
a way to come to terms
with that lowdown being inside of me
fighting for survival.

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