Night of Starlings

Tonight fell on us like black starlings.
This rain—a constant murmur,
but it has gently surprised me—
has been like a stranger’s embrace,
full of want and hunger.

We are become mutes,
wrapped in silence too thick
to break—a whispered apology:

“I am sorry for your sorrow,
that I have not been warm.”
“I am sorry for your hunger,
for making you sick by my caress.”

Well, you should have gone south
with the rest of your feathered kin.
I’m tired of seeing you around, not
knowing what to say when you
greet me with murmured familiarity.