Flight of the Starlings

I saw an omen grinning up at me

From the bottom of my cup

Little dried-up pine needles

Swimming in perfect geometry

Buzzing against the skin of my eyes

And I held in gentle hands

A cupful of the grey sky

With one great wobbling drop of molten metal swirling inside

I was two pupils punched into the place where my face ought to be

the sky got bigger above my head

all those flittering wings one square of static

Black shadows passed in mathematical spirals and weird discs

Maddeningly slow and orderly

that random drone humming in every direction was a comfort

Reminded me that my feet were still on the ground

When fishes swarmed through me