Sigmund Freud once observed that birds ‘don’t seem to be submitted to the same laws of gravity as us’, and yet apart from gravity they would die for they need gravity to swallow. I was thinking about this this morning, over good coffee and reasonable porridge, while I was reading about murmurations (the technical name for a flock of starlings whose phenomenal flight patterns signal that winter is on the way), and sitting spell-bound by this recently-posted clip by British filmmakers Liberty Smith and Sophie Windsor Clive:
Murmurations – like that word! I agree that it is spell-binding.
Puts me in mind of (yet another!) poem :)
The Dipper by Kathleen Jamie
It was winter, near freezing,
I’d walked through a forest of firs
when I saw issue out of the waterfall
a solitary bird.
It lit on a damp rock,
and, as water swept stupidly on,
wrung from its own throat
supple, undammable song.
It isn’t mine to give,
I can’t coax this bird to my hand
that know the depth of the river
yet sings of it on land.
(No more poems for a while I promise).