My Late Sister Is A Swift

Late sister who lived life on the wing,
 a wild, rollercoaster ride
 resurrected as a Swift,
 every late spring, laughbringer
 lobbed black anchor
 across blue skies,
 arrive after 4,000 miles,
 from Africa,
 or from the dead.

 Seem to live a dozen lives in one,
 scream diabolic frenzy,
 busy as you bank,
 twist, turn,

 all lifeflight,
 feed, mate, sleep
 in hurtle curves,
 in wingshiver,

 wing glow,

 nest under the eaves
 in a shallow cup
 of spat together
 grasses, leaves,
 feathers snatched on the wing

 snatch insects,
 store as bolus
 in your throat pockets.

 When rains come,
 you and partner skirt
 weather’s edge
 for days,

 your kids
 Tibetan monks
 enter state of stupor
 until your return.

 Fledged, your kids
 launch into air,
 and may not land
 for eighteen months.
 depart at Summer’s height,
 for Africa’s heat,
 or your graveside.

via WordPress for Phone app.

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