The starlings of Dubrovnik.
The starlings of Dubrovnik take back the town at dusk. More wing than fuselage, more echo than vision, they see us for the bumbling streams of nervousness that we are. In this landslide of a town, between sea and tectonic fate, they cackle and chirp, fleet and history-free, black darts in an orange sky. We, free to soar and dip, strafe and bomb your tiles and dresses, your ceramic, your silk. You, tanned pilgrims, all sparkle and flash poses, your crosshairs on your churches, your marble steps, your fevered etchings. Click, flash, capture. Your starbombs of light bounce off a millennium of blanched stone, stealing soul from the souless. We don't blink anymore at your lust below our wings. You are walking between walls already crumbling. Our airspace is clear. We soar, we dip, we strafe, laughing at your pilgrim frenzy.