As if some spirited wildness of wind
blackbirds wing themselves 
into a streamlined murmuration.
Just twenty or so
outside my sliding glass door.
 
They circle as of one mind.
Avian servant-leaders
take turns stepping up
or rather winging up
when the angle of the air alights in their brains
with the imperative to bank hard
now.
 
Someone in my living room is playing 
overlapping chords 
on the piano’s black keys only.
This bird-flight is an ancient 
and at times almost forlorn 
ethereal song of sight.
 
Youngsters are born into this timeless flock
and others die
yet still the dance goes on.
A century ago the murmuration circled
over women hanging out laundry 
and children playing games at backyard birthday parties.
A millennia ago it glimpsed the earlier people
treading woodland trails
and building burial mounds
shaped like birds.
 
I once joined a congregation
where leadership was determined by lot
random and ever changing
I put forth every effort
and lost myself
in pursuit of purpose 
and joy
I sky-danced a whimsical we.