1
Seeping, 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.

2
In the streaming darkness
the slow, exacting language of eggs.

3
No lulling pulse, 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.

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

5
First hop’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.

Bruno Liljefors, Common Swifts (detail). Used by permission. philippajones.com