The Opportunist

 In the sunless, almost moonscape
tarmac and pavement grooves
sits a starling: convex-chested heaving
a mighty tune to which all must listen.

It's a warning brought from the east
of a drought that has opened the earth
but his song is heard by only himself.
The silence carries his voice like light;
bouncing down every chromatic sleeve.

Nobody hears the warning but him;
of course he knows he came home early
and there are no fellow starling spectators
but his stance is divinely arched -

even with just an over-grown nucleus
he feels significantly superior.
He believes he is the lord of nights
and commands the silence to be silent.

If he was wearing blue-striped pajamas
he'd be shipped to four deaf walls
but even he knows, when that cat
creeps discreetly from around the corner
his reign is over and the cat restores night
and fastens the muzzle back on sanity.