Starlings on the Medway Marshes.

The sky of twilight, now thronging thrills,
With a fantastic flurry of black wings,
As flocking starlings, clatter whirl,
As shrapnel flies from bursting bombs,
Or a magnet in command of iron filings,
To form a sudden unity, the murmuration,
That staggers reason within its schisms.
Until at last the witchery wanes, abates,
And descends into woods now darkened,
Dizzying dusk with their final raptures,
Whirling as a dervish, dying on the wind,
Settling down to roost, before the night begins.