Starlings

Wild undulations like ghostly apparitions,

shape-shifting through daylight.

Each small actor, approximating their movements in relation to their neighbor

a proximity and collective intelligence we aspire to

fabricate in circuit boards filled with golden spools.

But they spin in golden hours, prismatic with possibility.

Their movement exhibiting emergence, as with our own consciousness.

Both phenomena that cannot be measured or modelled or moulded.

We spin, awake and asleep — dervishes of striving.