A tree must go numb with starlings
when they crowd its tranquil limbs,
their creaking demi-syllables
beetled with the same squeaking green
that oils their radar bodies.
A tree must only just endure starlings,
almost waking from bark lethargy
to crush them in a fast clap of boughs
and punch them into the earth
between the tentacle toes.
A tree's patience is proved by starlings
existing in its magnanimous crown,
their shrilling beaks like maggots,
racking worse than black crow racket,
morning violence of raze-brain sound.