Plough My Account Sign Out
My Account
    View Cart

    Subtotal: $

    Checkout
    summer flowers in a field

    Poem: No One Wrings the Air Dry

    By Laurie Klein

    February 19, 2016
    0 Comments
    0 Comments
    0 Comments
      Submit

    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.

    swallows flying low over a summer field Bruno Liljefors, Common Swifts (detail). Used by permission. philippajones.com
    Contributed By Laurie Klein

    Laurie Klein is an author and artist who lives in Washington State. Her first poetry collection, Where the Sky Opens: A Partial Cosmography, was published in 2015 (Cascade).

    Learn More
    0 Comments
    You have ${x} free ${w} remaining. This is your last free article this month. We hope you've enjoyed your free articles. This article is reserved for subscribers.

      Already a subscriber? Sign in

    Try 3 months of unlimited access. Start your FREE TRIAL today. Cancel anytime.

    Start free trial now