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December 9, 2015





In the silver light of dusk, 

of starlings spark from winter bare branches—

wingtips painting hieroglyphics 

in the blue-black sky.


How each one tracks the other—

how the many move in one full gesture—

no leading or following, just

this co-emergent dream of flight.


This is the dance we remember

in our own cells—how to walk through

the densest city streets, how to weave

in and out of bewildering crowds,


how to navigate cold empty hallways

to find contact, and unfold the flowers

of our hands to the most brutal desecrations.

This is a most primary sense remembered—


kinesthetic, relational—each sovereignty

quickened by the other, each one held

by the many in a glittering web—

not isolated bodies, lost


but a fluid organism, a sea of wings

pulsing on currents, inking the sky

with this first language of murmuration.


©Laura Weaver

first published on



2 Comments leave one →
  1. Russell Bramlett permalink
    December 9, 2015 6:21 am

    Poet, Beauty Way Walker, you…I Love!

    Sent from RB’s iPhone


  2. December 10, 2015 2:10 am

    Oooooooo! Love it. Pure beauty.

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