Wagtails Roosting (Poetry)

From out of the dusk-heavy gloom of winter sky
a whirling twirling weaving flock of birds
zoomed in
and shoppers gazed up — squinting
vaguely curious
those few observant passers-by
who stopped awhile as we did
wondering
what brought them here — a grey provincial town
and more specifically
to this shadowy unnamed tree
still leafed in February — its foreign green
the natural focal point in one small sterile acreage
of redbrick square.

The air frantically excited churned in that mêlée
a roiling boiling stew of urgent wings.
They settled on the roofs — took off again
dived and soared — dropped down
a hundred bodies — maybe two
impossible to calculate
great tumbling clouds of them
chirruping and tweeting — cutting through
the space to claim a branch
their inch of twig
tails bobbing as they fluttered
shuffled and grew silent
silhouettes
the coming nightfall hid.

When we walked beneath their quietened B & B
they hardly stirred
as though content — each had a room
in that multi-starred sequestered hostelry.
Roosting there until the dawn’s first light
when the first feathered soul to make
a sound
would set the air a-quiver all around
and with a rush they’ll rise and leave
while scattering on the ground
small payments for their lodging
overnight.