by Hugh Eckert

 

Leatherwing fluttering, cut-outs in black ink

Against the fading fluorescent sunset sky;

Leaf-spiraling with purpose and hunger,

Cries shrilled out of hearing, sketching their world.

Replacing the swallows, the night-shift pours forth

From crevice and eave. The host of shy hunters

Fills the middle air with their dance.This show

Is unseen for the most part, yet the insect-seekers

Are not invisible. It is our lapse of attention:

How few of us look up for quiet wings at twilight!