By the Mouth of Two or Three

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If the world were truly and wholly sullen, 
the starlings would never sing—never. 

They would see only blood in the clouds 
of sunrise and sunset and hold their peace 

until the last of any remaining songs blurred 
deep into the earth never to rise again.  

But every morning, every evening, they hold
court in a cluster of trees and shimmer—each 

dazzling feather dipped in black—shimmer 
with ancient ululations that echo the notes 

of Judaean tragedy. Something of this tragedy, 
it is true, is worth the singing, or the starlings 

would never sing, never, and I, I would never 
trouble you, nor anyone else, with this temple 

and its walls made up of days and its solitary 
window to look through those days and there  

discover a life where all birds sing a truth even
the most doubtful will someday acknowledge.