The Starling Master
#23 of poetry
"It is not known who, precisely, the figure in this poem is meant to be. Due to association with and patronage of social animals, it has been argued this is dedicated to Mistolin. Due to the elemental association with wind, Setirov has also been argued. The possible reference to this figure functioning as a psychopomp could apply to either deity. And both were known shapeshifters. But I would draw your attention to the details that fit neither of them: the silence, the selective invisibility. It is entirely possible that this figure is not meant to be anyone but himself. Mythologies are made of more than just Gods, after all."
-Prof de Gral, 'Lectures on Applied Shamanism.'
Amid the mid-air rushing the Starling Master stands
Invisible to every eye not of his feathered kin.
The starlings wheel around him to his soundless swift commands,
Above, beneath, beside him they rush out and they rush in,
In orbit all about him does their fluttering vortex spin,
While he his way upon the wild wind wanders. From his hand
Intangible there flies a thread
To each bird's heart, to each bird's head,
So at a twitch of joy and dread
They hear and understand.
They swoop to his command.
The birds, his kites innumerable, he steers among the peaks,
Each is his kite upon his string to cut the windy streaks,
Among the roofs and chimneys. He smiles, and never speaks.
As does a blast of wind upon a fading autumn tree
That in its gilded crimson leaves lets slip its singing soul,
So bursts the flock at his approach, arising fast and free
Up from the bare dun boughs, round him in harmony to roll,
Up from the boughs of slumber, woken barely in control.
He smiles in recognition. He knows each bird's history:
The little triumphs, little wars,
The stormy hymns their choir outpours,
The dizzy height each fears, and soars,
And cries aloud to see,
Cries out most endlessly.
But though he hears them when they call and shepherds where they fly,
He hears the blackbird voices that he shepherds through the sky,
They never hear a word from him until the day they die.
These are the things that starlings know: that life is cold and sweet
Like northwest stormfront windsheer, that trees rock you to sleep,
That flocks that flock together no tempest can defeat,
That if you die before you wake, trust him your soul to keep,
And when you die, trust him to lead you where the sky is deep.
Go watch them, brooding watchfully to hear his wayward feet
Upon the empty air, and you,
Between cloud grey and cobalt blue,
May see his unseen coming too
Above you in the street,
Beneath the wild wingbeat.
Amid his multitude of birds the Starling Master goes,
Amid the winds he walks on, that billow through his clothes,
Where no man knows to look for him. Only a starling knows.