swifts
The air is raining birds, falling
against a blue mediterranean backdrop.
We watch the skies and mediaeval rooftops
fill with aerial action as swifts slice open
airspace in search of fledgling fuel.
Sometimes we believe we are flying
with them in a game of human acrobatics
screaming with joy as we dip and dive
to street level, turn on a wing beat
to rise up again, hearts in our mouths.
Above the mediaeval streets a kestrel
hovers over baby pigeons crouching
in the roof shade on red-hot tiles.
They fiercely raid their mothers crop
blind to the drifting predator’s focus.
The air is raining birds, falling
against a blue mediterranean backdrop.
We watch the skies and rooftops fill
with aerial action as swifts slice open
airspace in search of fledgling fuel.
Sometimes we believe we are flying
with them in a game of human acrobatics
screaming with joy as we dip and dive
to street level, turn on a wing beat
to rise up again, hearts in our mouths.
