The eternal insistence the starling must feel
Manifests in his beak: it goes yellow in Spring.
His feathers suddenly irridesce—flames in
Golden green on his speckled back. “Again,”
The colors say, colors he can’t see, not him.
He can’t help but crackle and squeak his song,
Spin his wings on the peak of the roof.
You could say this beauty is forced upon him
Every March of his life, a deliberate, willess love.
When the information in the blood says, “Joy!”
There will be no regret, no dying, no stasis.
It seems the whole structure of human life,
Baroque, cunning, our own, is erected
To surround the starling in his joy:
The rooftop he stands on, the palm trees
He hides in, the eaves he nests under,
The metal in the sky he sings beneath,
All in denial of him, a pest strutting around
The cars in the parking lot, eyes flashing,
Immersed in himself, the catalyst bird
Moving beyond all undertaking, beyond me,
To imagine I’m a starling, imagining nothing.
