A grace-filled murmuration

The starlings gather in my yard, 

Chattering away as they swoop in, 

Landing en masse in the grass to feast 

On some unknown vegetation, 

And then, at some mysterious signal, 

They ascend as one into the air again, 

Circling until they alight again 

In some other part of the yard; 

Up and down, up and down,

A grace-filled murmuration, 

Like the Anglicans, who sit, then stand, 

Then kneel to pray, then sit and kneel again,

Then stand in church on a Sunday morning…