Starlings

Starlings roost in the middle of Wellington, near my wife’s work. Depending on the hour, when I’m waiting to pick her up, I sit in the car park and listen as they settle in the billowing trees. Hundreds of them, dowsing the car sounds in bird song. Chattering, chattering, chattering like crazy to each other. I don’t know, maybe they’re gossiping, or telling the stories of their day, or spinning delighted tales about the glory of flight. Or maybe they just chirp because that’s what birds do. But that conversation, taking place on a thousand branches, over the tops of the lonely commuters, as the street lights replace the sun, is the most reassuring thing. A secret, happy urban joy.