On certain evenings, just as the light goes soft, starlings gather above the fields and begin to pour themselves across the sky. Thousands of them, folding and unfolding like a scarf caught in a kindly wind. Scientists call it a murmuration, which is a lovely word for a lovely mystery.

Here is the humble secret: no bird is in charge. Each starling watches only its six or seven nearest neighbours and gently matches them. That is the whole rule. From that small politeness, the flock becomes one enormous, swooping thought.

Ten thousand birds, and not a single one in charge.

There may be a quiet lesson in it, or there may not. Either way, it is worth stepping outside at dusk, tilting your head back, and letting the sky do the thinking for a while.