Starlings

Here they come, with sweeping dawn,
Swooping down from roofs and trees,
Congregating on the lawn,
Feathers ruffling in the breeze.
Like grim policemen, in a line,
Spread out along the rose bed edge,
With solemn, unperturbed design,
They march toward the privet hedge.
With darting beaks, they probe and prod,
Lest something should be overlooked,
Each waiting for a sudden nod
And wriggling flesh supremely plucked.
And then a cry! (“I’ve got one, Sarge!”)
Held high in triumph to display
A struggling sliver, pink and large
That never felt the heat of day.
A few fly over to inspect
The earth that yielded up its find,
Forensics, hoping to dissect
Some pattern, as yet undefined.
Then all resume their fateful search
And leave no blade of grass unturned,
While rooks, atop their rooftop perch,
Wait for the hunt to be adjourned.
With fluttered squawk, the lawn is bare,
Checked and crossed out from their diaries,
Proceeding on to God knows where,
Eliminated from enquiries.