Murmuration

Jet black-like smoke fills the sky. Sun darkens nearing dusk. Starlings,
thousands of them, a metallic sheen of glossy feathers mimic a cry for
protection from winter's storm. Long cone-shaped bills. Single fluid
masses of art morphing into a mesmerizing phoenix. Each swirl is like
a ballet orchestrated by an unseen conductor. My eyes are drawn upward,
tracing each movement, the way the flock seems to breathe as one entity,
pulses in perfect harmony as if the skies whisper secrets of things unseen.
I sear this image on my skin. I cry out for protection. Shield us with wings
that soar on your outer rims. Guard us from the talons of wealth. Purge us
from these political predators, their claws digging deep into our woke flesh.