Starlings

Naturally we prefer

the lonely nuthatches, agile chickadees—

those that stay away when the mass birds descend,

those which keep still and watch John, an arm’s length removed,

when he pours the damp peanuts, anchors the suet.

Those with color. Bright,

brief, exclusive marks. Expert drizzles. Reds and inky blues.

Someone used a different kind of brush

for the starlings.

Somebody pissed-off,

and dim-witted, with mud on his hands.

Now John tells me that, like mynah birds,

starlings shit liquid.

Oh that makes them

even more appealing.

Ok, I know full well that starlings

are not ugly

if I just shift my frame of reference

even slightly. But it’s a big

frame of reference. It’s wired into my jaw.

It’s my plate-glass window brain and head. What is the purpose

of beauty? To motivate

fucking? As if fucking

needed any extra

motivation. What is the purpose

of beauty if those without it

get stomped, shunned, otherwise de-

selected? Is awareness of beauty

inherently brutal?

Imagine, then, the violence

inherent in light.