Each shift in motion begins with one bird’s fear, a feather trigger.Maybe it’s a wind uptick or the startle of reflection in the Wadden Seathat sets the starlings’ murmuration. Millions, black in flight, in dance,in Denmark. A form of madness, the starlings chattering in a single voice.For love of Shakespeare, we speak starling, our mouths black with feathers.I want to dance. But you refuse to lead. Isn’t that a form of backstepping,of creating space between us? In the wingspan of distancefrom your body to mine, we could hold a lit candle or a child.The European starlings arrived in crates as a gift of improvementto the New World—a sonnet of birdsong released into Central Park.Word travels with speed. So, when you tell me you still love me,it wings past me. Say it again, louder. You know I’m a flight risk.Once, we found each other before a congregation, vowing unison.Last night, your body folded around mine. We slept like that as starlingsswept the night sky. Stunning you say, meaning the murmuration of birds—improbable beauty on an otherwise ordinary day.