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.