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Have you seen the starlings?
The clutter, the discord of birds on separate paths, crisscrossing on sharply cut cliffs and craggy ledges, is as disconnected words which have no sentence formed.
A warm wind approaches and the flock is presented a heated current upon which to escape chaos for the sky. Thermals. The movement of the air, warmed over by the earth below, lifts birds as if weightless off the cliff in unison. Fluid words are these, carried high, arranged and tethered. Words skim the thinner air now with meaning. Lifted thoughts seek a higher realm, one physically intangible though more present and potent than the fallen feather’s brush of softness against skin.
The land is swept clean. The rock now is empty of noise. Words placed on paper ride the warm wind currents which sweep the dust and polish the grass and carry the gliding birds. Here the mind is clear. The mind is clean, devoid of confusion as the winged fly in unison building understanding through strung thoughts. The noise of chaos is left to take another route. What remains is Story, a placing of letters into words inciting emotion and replicating life. These word patterns are aligned and fluid, as are starling murmurations decorating the vaulted skies above the Land of the Rose.
Have you seen the starlings?
Mary Jane Goodman
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