A Murmuration of Birds - May 9 2025

 

A Murmuration of Birds

May 9 2025

I left the leaves for spring.

Now, after a hard winter

the lawn is carpeted

with brittle leaves

in shades of earthy brown.

Shrunken leaves

with their edges curling up,

dry enough

to crumble in your hand.

Stirred by the wind

they make a dry rustling sound;

flutter up,

bank and dip,

swirl, sweep, and circle.

Gather against the fence

in an airy windrow

until the next big gust.

This reminds me of the fluid synchrony

of schooling fish

flashing their scales,

a murmuration of birds

swooping and swerving

like smoke against the sky;

as if precisely choreographed

by some hive-like brain.

I wait for a calm

to rake them up

and let the nascent grass breathe.

They are almost weightless,

and stray leaves

light-as-air

keep wafting away

from my insubordinate piles.

Why am I always so surprised

by how fast the lawn greens

in the warm spring sun?

The thirst for life,

drinking in the light

like ravenous prisoners

released from their dungeon

cold and hungry

to an endless buffet.