Fledgling

Perched on a powerline,
the starling is sturdily secure,
at home in the winter morning.
Small golden tongs, its beak
probes glossy feathers; tilted up,
releases clucks and chirrups.
With each song, a large pearl
swells inside the throat:
down rises, brushing air.
Plumbline to the earth,
a streak of whiteness falls
with perfect gravity.
The starling arches, twists
sideways, exploring all
angles of body, voice.
Only momently still,
it yet lacks maturity's poise
between singleness and energy.
Cupped downwards, wings sprout
as if flexing; it takes off —
a low flier, but convincing.