This morning in meditation–breathe in, breathe out, listen, feel, allow–a flock of starlings landed excitedly in the garden spruce tree, chattering in bird-talk, aflock with gossip or everyday wing chat.
Overhead, toward the garage, a crow barked. The starlings fell silent, black feathers invisible in the deep green spruce. I never noticed when they alit toward dawn sky. Breathe in, breathe out, listen, feel, allow.
Starlings are both very ordinary and extremely magical, don’t you think?
In blue-black splendor, picking seeds, they appear nondescript. We’d rather ooooh and ahhhh over the white tail feathers of a bald eagle, or even the bright orange-red of a robin’s breast. We’ll stare entranced as Baltimore orioles suck on dripping sweet oranges or watch chicka-dee-dee-dees chirp and tackle tiny sunflower seeds, but starlings? Nah. Our eyes often quickly turn away, seeking more spectacular feathers.
But have you witnessed flocks of starlings traveling from tree to tree? A forest sings alive with the thousands of flapping wings, a swish of airborne swooshing shimmer, a tailspin of magical black eyes sweeping like a school of flying fish from treetop to treetop to treetop, and look! over there! Here comes another swirling diving etch-a-sketch photo opportunity too quicksilver to capture. The sound reverberates loud, unexpected, chortling, chirping, creating a new song out of silence. Where once nothing existed, now something sings. Something which awakens the heart from slumber, from ordinary woodland rhythms.