I

Six o'clock sun-up -
and the dawn seeing
beeswarms of startled

starling, fling and flip
like an upswinging
dark and unbridled

wave of winged words past
the swift, swirling mist.

II

A chitter-chatter
of rude excitement
rides the vibrant air
the very moment

of wheeling, whirling;
each pirouette being
executed with
skill and perfect truth

against alternate
patches of off-white
nimbus and sky-blue.
Then - in answer to
a prearranged code -
the mighty, fluid

murmuration drops
earthwards like a stone
on the standing crops
of ripening corn:

III

With one last brushstroke
- worked upon the bleak

Western horizon -
the skyscape Whistlers
take to field colours
of arboreal brown

and green, leaving that
once motile canvas
of heaven lifeless,
bare and desolate.