Starlings
When the corn is down
and the fields lay brown
starlings flock together.
Wheeling and turning
turning and churning
they dart
as one,
disappearing
and
reappearing
across the
autumnal sky.
They move
In a
cloud
called a
murmuration.
Dunes
In the hot summer
On the beach side
Of the great gray Atlantic
We marched through
White drifts
Our tanned bare feet
Causing
Avalanches of
Cool soft shifting sand
Amid the pale sea oats
Fearful we would step
On a sand spur
In a foot path worn
Through the winding valley of
The towering white dunes
Toward the sounds of the
Crashing surf.
