A tumbleweed of starlings
by Mark Cocker from on (#SDKG)
Claxton, Norfolk It's odd to think of them as chimney-pot solitaries in Warsaw or Krakow
One of the striking aspects of starling flocks is the lack of rhythm in their flight. It looks all metropolitan bustle and hurry, but as I emerge on the track by the marsh I can hear the air rush through all those wings. Then there comes that eternal rash of brittle notes that is the essence of starling palaver.
There are about 400, probably fresh in on yesterday's north-easterlies and originally from Russia or Poland. It's odd to think of them as chimney-pot solitaries in Warsaw or Krakow - where they call them szpak - each producing that quirky wing-flicking spring bluster, or stabbing worm mush into the yellow-lined flowerheads of their begging youngsters.
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