A scatter of Vaux swifts, swallow-like “cigars with wings,” pluck
insects from the afternoon air. As dusk approaches
the scatter thickens into clouds of dozens, then
hundreds of chirping birds revolving in the sky.
The swirls over-lap, separate, coalesce again
into an ever-darkening cloud, swoop ever-
nearer a chimney. Suddenly, the cloud’s leader
drops into the darkness of the chimney and the others,
hundreds of them, follow instantly. The air becomes still
and silent as if the house has inhaled, has sucked birds
from the air like a run-in-reverse video
of clotted smoke
streaming from
the chimney.
• Richard Stokes, a Juneau resident since 1971, writes about nature, which he loves, and aging, which he is doing.
To submit to Writers’ Weir, email your poetry, fiction or creative nonfiction to managing editor Mary Catharine Martin at maryc.martin@capweek.com.
