{"sf1_id":1704011,"sf2_id":"znJrKznk","title":"The Starling Master","author":"Rob MacWolf","words":377,"posted_at":"2021-04-07T17:09:00.000Z","tags":["Poetry","lyric","starling"],"url":"https://fse.anthro.fr/stories/1704011-the-starling-master","original_url":"https://sofurry.com/s/znJrKznk","image_url":"https://cdn.sofurryfiles.com/submissions/thumbnails/65/03/65033230-89e8-4c0a-9343-53154cb7384a","description":"#23 of poetry\n\n\"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.\"\n-Prof de Gral, 'Lectures on Applied Shamanism.'","content":"Amid the mid-air rushing the Starling Master stands\n\nInvisible to every eye not of his feathered kin.\n\nThe starlings wheel around him to his soundless swift commands,\n\nAbove, beneath, beside him they rush out and they rush in,\n\nIn orbit all about him does their fluttering vortex spin,\n\nWhile he his way upon the wild wind wanders. From his hand\n\nIntangible there flies a thread\n\nTo each bird's heart, to each bird's head,\n\nSo at a twitch of joy and dread\n\nThey hear and understand.\n\nThey swoop to his command.\n\nThe birds, his kites innumerable, he steers among the peaks,\n\nEach is his kite upon his string to cut the windy streaks,\n\nAmong the roofs and chimneys. He smiles, and never speaks.\n\n  \n\nAs does a blast of wind upon a fading autumn tree\n\nThat in its gilded crimson leaves lets slip its singing soul,\n\nSo bursts the flock at his approach, arising fast and free\n\nUp from the bare dun boughs, round him in harmony to roll,\n\nUp from the boughs of slumber, woken barely in control.\n\nHe smiles in recognition. He knows each bird's history:\n\nThe little triumphs, little wars,\n\nThe stormy hymns their choir outpours,\n\nThe dizzy height each fears, and soars,\n\nAnd cries aloud to see,\n\nCries out most endlessly.\n\nBut though he hears them when they call and shepherds where they fly,\n\nHe hears the blackbird voices that he shepherds through the sky,\n\nThey never hear a word from him until the day they die.\n\n  \n\nThese are the things that starlings know: that life is cold and sweet\n\nLike northwest stormfront windsheer, that trees rock you to sleep,\n\nThat flocks that flock together no tempest can defeat,\n\nThat if you die before you wake, trust him your soul to keep,\n\nAnd when you die, trust him to lead you where the sky is deep.\n\nGo watch them, brooding watchfully to hear his wayward feet\n\nUpon the empty air, and you,\n\nBetween cloud grey and cobalt blue,\n\nMay see his unseen coming too\n\nAbove you in the street,\n\nBeneath the wild wingbeat.\n\nAmid his multitude of birds the Starling Master goes,\n\nAmid the winds he walks on, that billow through his clothes,\n\nWhere no man knows to look for him. Only a starling knows.\n\n  \n  \n\n","series":{"name":"poetry","previous":"https://fse.anthro.fr/stories/1703893-the-past-is-the-opposite-shallows.json","next":"https://fse.anthro.fr/stories/1705582-autumn-interrupts.json"}}