Sturnus vulgaris
Their path is arduous as it is dangerous as it is desperate. Birds of prey make it a frenzied path. Sifting ocean currents bedevil it with wind & rain. Perhaps for the many, the increase of spring stir in the great distances that separate cold from heat, dark from light. Its issue, a promise that may impassion an avian brain. The many, beset by these fevers, pad on. Those left of little desire, gather & die.
There is a place at the end of our ranch, near the roadway where they litter the ground. It is the same year after year: from late October to early December, and only here, upon this one entirely inconspicuous piece of earth, their paths end. All ecstasies of flight. All the pleasures of the worm.
Cursed they may be by conservationist, by ornithologist and almost universally, by stern farmer, yet are not we the most noxious, invasive of all the clamorous din? Look at what we have brought to waste & ruin on this great, Green Rind! Indeed, our ire and disgusts for these weeds of the air should haunt us. Trouble our dreams & philosophies.
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