Pause.

The starlings are returning early, or
should I say emerging—for the starlings
never left, simply hid. The windchill
does not bother them: large groups
often swoop and revel in the current
in dramatic, black-jacketed ballets.
The one outside my window calls out
for a mate. It’s going on ten minutes now.
He’s perched on the edge of the neighboring
façade, his plumage quivering
and refracting the sun. No clouds today.
Perfect for being noticed. For shaking
your feathers till starlight rains out.
For putting on a show. I look up
from this poem and he’s vanished without
another word, a parting song. He’s found
an audience worthy of his spectacle.

Ashley Wagner. “Song of the False Spring.”

 

Behold God beholding you… and smiling.

Anthony De Mello, S.J.