Thousands of starlings. Fat and fluffy (or pretending to be), they are in every tree and on every branch outside my window. The closest ones press their chins down into their breasts, looking satisfied or grumpy. But, oh, the chatter in the other ones! If just a high and bouncing sound can be cacophonous, then this one is. I like it, though. I tap at the keyboard and they chirp on the twigs.
(Who knew mynas were also starlings, also Sturnidae? I had had no idea. People listen more attentively to them than to common starlings, but, then, people like to hear themselves talk. )
And -- stillness! I turn my head and catch only the last fifty or so as they vanish over the roofs in silence.
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