This is what it looked like on the last Wednesday
in December, an ocean of bleached stubble
rolling all the way to the edge of the woods
on the far horizon.
The neighbor friend I visit each week lives
at the edge of this field, sits out in his garage
with Dozer, his pit bull, and watches the weather
and the seasons change. Last week, he said,
a flock of starlings came in, painting the sky
with the graceful designs of their flight.
He estimates they numbered three hundred thousand.
Imagine the sound!
They come to feast on the remains of the harvest,
the golden kernels scattered on the ground.
And then they go, and the world is still again,
with only a whisper of wind, playing the cut stalks
as if they were its pan pipes.