Starling

Tell me little bird,

Who in my window sits.

What is that of which you sing,

In high-pitched spastic fits.

Could it be a call to arms –

A thrilling, trilling battle cry?

Am I to expect that towards me now

Your feathered brethren fly?

When is it they should arrive,

This sonorous, avian infantry,

And what is it they plan to do,

Against a foe as large as me?

Perhaps you plan to flock en masse,

Your airborne murmuration blotting out the sky,

Or perhaps you plan to fly from sky to ground,

And use your beaks upon my eyes.

Yet, perhaps I am mistaken,

And it’s a song of peace you sing.

Has no one told you little bird,

Never wake a giant when he’s slumbering.