Starlings

Every evening they come, swooping in flocks that darken the sky, wheeling and swirling in a curious dance of ‘follow my leader’. They alight in droves on the grassy verges and the newly ploughed, furrowed earth; and then as one they take to the air and swarm along the telegraph wires. Chattering and twittering and babbling, like a huge discordant orchestra of confusion. Finally, as if a Demon Headmaster has held up his hand, there is silence – the sudden cessation of noise is almost ear-piercing in its intensity. Then in one great massed flurry of wings, they take to the air once more, and are gone, leaving the crazily swinging telegraph wires as the only evidence of their recent presence. Gradually the frenzied swaying of the high wires slow, until they are still again; and peace returns.

 

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