A sculpture of Starlings

Each evening I see them; from a distance they appear as a smudge on the horizon, moving too rapidly and in too many different dimensions to be smoke from one of the chimneys. Passing up through town towards home, I catch sight of them again. This time I am closer and the smudge dissipates to become a multitude of small black shapes, each one a Starling performing its part in this grand aerial ballet. On still evenings, as the sunlight begins to fade, to be replaced by the artificial glow of the streetlights, the Starlings gather in increasing numbers, coming together in tight flocks that wheel about the sky. Waves of brown shadow pulse across the flock as birds turn in harmony, flexing like muscle, each bird acting in unison to some unknown instruction. All the while the flock is increasing in size as small parties of Starlings come together, forming bigger groups that ultimately coalesce into a single fluid entity, numbering four thousand strong.

The presence of the Starlings has not gone unnoticed and the local Sparrowhawk can be seen most evenings, working the flock with characteristic poise. Selecting a suitable victim from the wheeling mass of black bodies will not be easy and more often than not the Sparrowhawk will fail to secure a meal. The performance lasts for an hour or more before, suddenly, as the last of the natural light slips away, the Starlings fall like a shower of arrows launched by a whole host of English bowmen. Such is the speed of their descent into the thick cover provided by a line of conifers that a loud rushing sound can be heard, again suggesting the flight of arrows falling upon ranks of infantry. As the remainder of the flock wheels in ever tightening arcs above the trees so more and more birds slip down into their night time roost.

Later in the evening, as I slip out for a pint of milk, I pass the conifers. There is a soft babble of noise, which reminds me of a concert audience just prior to the lifting of the curtain. The chatter has an edge of excitement to it and, if one were to anthropomorphise, you could just imagine the birds catching up on the day’s gossip before settling down for the night ahead. I wonder for how long this roost will be tolerated. The sheer numbers of birds involved means that the cars parked at this end of the street are splattered with droppings, as must be the garden within which the conifers sit. Other roosts in the town have been lost because of intolerance. Will this one suffer the same fate?