Not My Angst

Tribal instinct spares none. 
You change the script, 
and come out to see the murmuration 
of a flock of starlings. 

The precision, the blend 
make you wonder about the harmony 
of small birds in unison, 
an army moves as one body. 

O man, your mathematics 
has gone absurd. The sects and 
cults. The zealot, the devout. 
Brother, I will say unleafing must start. 

More poems? 
That does not work. 
All the daffodils go blind. 
Thousands of years go― 
in making a vision.