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.