The starlings are gleaning the fields now, hundreds at a time, settling in for a meal of gmo seed. I drive by the fields on my way to Target, to Fresh Market, to the places I go. I see the birds, awkward in their wobbly walk, pecking, pecking, looking almost robotic until they take wing, the word apparently received by all at once — time to go! — and the whole flock lifts itself across the sky, wafting, wavelike and beautiful.
Lots of people don’t like starlings. Let’s blame Shakespeare for mentioning them at all. People say they’re invasive, like bamboo and kudzu. And so are we. Everything not kept in check by some countervailing force will tend to wander, spread out, relocate. The starlings came here on ships, just like we did. And lemurs probably rode to Madagascar on rafts, once upon a time.
I have no point to make. I was just thinking about the starlings today, gleaning the fields, and flying the way they do, in bird-ribbons, pepper in the sky.