[.jump-title]1
Seeping[.jump-title], like swollen eyelids
behind Burney Falls,
a dozen nests daub the cliff.
Mother Swift is a black knife
thrust sidewise, the maul of water
rent. Shred-by-strand,
her cargo of moss jeweled
by the mist, she stalls
mid-air: Stone Sweet Home,
slicked over with spit.

[.jump-title]2
In the streaming[.jump-title] darkness
the slow, exacting language of eggs.

[.jump-title]3
No lulling pulse[.jump-title], or voice –
chicks in their shells wake
to endless tumult. Pure roar.
Where warmth hovers,
each day’s solace is juiced
with spiders and gnats,
bees, beetles. Whatever it takes.

[.jump-title]4
Hour by hour[.jump-title], the breached
torrent. The killing cold.
For each shivering life,
she is the preening beak.

[.jump-title]5
First hop[.jump-title]’s a doozy. Readied
for iridescence, her offspring
brave the shock of quiet,
dry air, and daylight. They carry,
from this flight forward, night’s
living sheen in their hollow bones.