A Late Serendipity

Huey Images

“Meanwhile, in some formation of their own,
They fly me still, and steal my thoughts away.”
(Richard Wilbur, “An Event”)*

A galaxy of starlings
as if a child’s game
shaping and reshaping
with pointer finger
mercurial imaginings
across a screen,

Nick Fewings

a scrabbled alphabet,
a murmuring almost-memory,
second childhood joying
in the whirling This . . .
No, This . . . Yes, Almost . . .
No . . . Yes . . .


Such a gift, this murmuration
of European Starlings,
a resurrection of leaves
from the strip-mall parking lot
late-autumn tree beside my
volcanic-orange Mini,
its expired extended warranty,
like me, I joke. Why not?

Today, I lucked upon
this parking space, its calling
to look up–a paradoxical
choreography of spontaneous,
synchronized stars.

Finn Ijsbeert

No matter what message
the ancient Romans fortuned
from their gods, for me
and maybe the other Old
trying to locate their cars,
this maddening dance
of mundane birds
turns beautiful
in time with each other.

For Marc, Janeen, and our ageless high school class of 1964

*Collected Poems, 1943-2004, A Harvest Book, Harcourt, Inc., 2004, p. 347.

Rhys Kentish