The wind brings with her
cloud after cloud, each calling
in turn with a draught at the door
to sweetly kiss my cheek
and bid me peace on the breeze,
for theirs is but a fleeting visit,
full of vows
that this October will be different, darling.
The faint figure of a single starling,
black at a distance, seen closer
with a gloss of purples and greens,
fast in flight, impeded by mistrals
on its route to the roosting site
where a mass murmuration
warms its wings on winter nights.
I watch from my window,
not yet convinced by the change in weather.