The Screaming Party

Every evening they come darting across

the skyline      dots and dashes of high-pitched morse.

Who knows what they’re screaming for     static

in their throats     white noise plucked from the day’s havoc

and flung back into blank air.     Hypnotic drifts.

As if auditioning for Hitchcock     these swifts

carry the contraband pressure we must

scatter     before we can capitulate

to the dark tucked inside us     and sleep.     Strident

cries      industrious wings      are hooks to rest

our shadows on     watch them soar     our own fall

mouths agape.      Each burst of piercing calls

silvers a key     to unfasten the doors

to dreams     so      greet     greet     our night visitors.

Posted: Fri 8 Sep, 2017