Among the bare winter-worn trees, a flock of starlings lifts from their roosting spot. They loom across the sky like a thin black lace veil. They change directions, forming new shapes with every movement. The flock contracts into a heart, then stretches across the sky in a long, sinewy band, then contracts into a tight sphere. This murmuration of starlings, the ebb and flow of shape and form of birds, happens every evening at dusk in the winter here close to this particular spot where I sit captivated.
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