Third Place

The Starlings

In maple tree and strawberry tree, whiteywood, macrocarpa
and pine, we found them out. In the thicket of the pittosporum
hedge, in eucalyptus and camellia, japonica and rhododendron,
in all that wide, wild acre we were poacher and gamekeeper,

noting the birds' vanishings and reappearances, each new nest
bristling in the branches. The thrush's, rough grasses outside,
and inside smooth mud; in the plumtree a blackbird's,
with its speckled, green egg; thrown together in haste,

the sparrows' anyhow slums, that in late spring gales
came calamitously to earth; and once a miracle,
a warbler's delicate pouch stitched with lichen, quills
of the softest down, suspended by a thread. Still,

it's the starlings I remember, the pair that returned to that gap
above the purple hydrangeas, between weatherboard and eve.
The same birds, we thought, but how long does a starling live?
For twenty years they came and went, flit and pause and up

into that hidden place, on bird business. Only the starlings
chose our home for theirs. The vastness and splendour
of their piecemeal activity, their lives' long labour,
was revealed at last; we saw, in the murk of the ceiling,

that whole cavernous space filled, stuffed like a haybarn,
all their store piled high like gold. Let the starlings warn
of love's propensity: never knowing when to leave off,
it builds and builds and builds, and enough is never enough.


Tim Upperton
Palmerston North