How do they do it?
I step outside to high pitch
frenzy of piercing beaks
tearing through the air,
a shrieking, a symphonic screech
high in the tree, the birds
every leaf is a black silhouette
in the old oak
then, on queue, abrupt
spooky silence
and flight
a dancing murmur,
a perfect vision of sound
now split by the ferocious wind
still trying to stay in time with each other
but the orchestra is
blown away
each note
trying to hang on
in separate sets
still, quaking silence
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