Murmuration Under the Overpass

At dawn the highway hums like a held violin, concrete ribs sweating last night’s rain. Starlings gather on the power lines, black notes waiting for a conductor.

Then the flock lifts, a single thought, pouring through air in quick silver grammar. Their bodies turn and the morning turns with them, a dark river rewriting the sky.

Below, commuters knot at red lights, coffee steaming in paper planets. No one speaks, but wind moves through windows, carrying feathers, salt, and brake dust.

For one bright minute the city remembers it was marsh once, and tide, and reed. The birds fold into distance, and the overpass keeps singing.