Black starlings, smaller than a grudge
line up on the wire, still as sentinels.

As cars drive by, some fly away,
others arrive as reinforcements

Their appearance holds no significance.
It is simply one resting spot, a thin layover.

I arch my back skyward to watch them,
at dusk, as summer exits.

No more warm evenings for either of us.

Log in or register to write something here or to contact authors.