Equinox

The swifts will be leaving soon.

Their northern kin have joined them,
beckoned to the prime chimneys they've staked out.
Every night now, in the breezy September sunset,
there's a great family reunion.

They zip and swoop,
dozens of them,
as if stirred
in a stew-pot by a giant wooden spoon.

They are hoards of children playing tag
in the dusk.
A different game, though.
Each time their chittering whorl
passes over the chimney, a few make feints
at it. They hover over,
flutter,
drop --
then dodge, and zip away laughing.

Every now and then, one does drop in.
Then two and three and five at a time.
Until only a dozen are left,
circling the neighborhood, soaking in the joyous sunset.

But now there's no more chitter -
they're silent.
The game turns melancholy.
How can they bear to go in, when the night is so so perfect,
the bugs so tasty,
the flight so clear and fast?

At last, only a few remain,
and then each joins the rest,
after taking in one more tiny lungful of evening.

I tiptoe over to the chimney.
Inside, they are chatting away,
their warm bodies close,
overlapping like shingles,
talking over travel plans.