Page 1 Page 2 Page 3 Page 4 Page 5 Page 6 Page 7 Page 8 Page 9 Page 10 Page 11 Page 12 Page 13 Page 14 Page 15 Page 16 Page 17 Page 18 Page 19 Page 20 Page 21 Page 22 Page 23 Page 24 Page 25 Page 26 Page 27 Page 28 Page 29 Page 30 Page 31 Page 32 Page 33 Page 34 Page 35 Page 36 Page 37 Page 38 Page 39 Page 40 Page 41 Page 42 Page 43 Page 44 Page 45 Page 46 Page 47 Page 48 Page 49 Page 50 Page 51 Page 52 Page 53 Page 54 Page 55 Page 56 Page 57 Page 58 Page 59 Page 60 Page 61 Page 62 Page 63 Page 64 Page 65 Page 66 Page 67 Page 68 Page 69 Page 70 Page 71 Page 72 Page 73 Page 74 Page 75 Page 76 Page 77 Page 78 Page 79 Page 80 Page 81 Page 82 Page 83 Page 84No One Wrings the Air Dry 1 Seeping, like swollen eyelids behind Burney Falls, a dozen nests daub the cliff. Mother Swift is a black knife thrust sidewise, the maul of water rent. Shred-by-strand, her cargo of moss jeweled by the mist, she stalls mid-air: Stone Sweet Home, slicked over with spit. 2 In the streaming darkness the slow, exacting language of eggs. 3 No lulling pulse, or voice – chicks in their shells wake to endless tumult. Pure roar. Where warmth hovers, each day’s solace is juiced with spiders and gnats, bees, beetles. Whatever it takes. 4 Hour by hour, the breached torrent. The killing cold. For each shivering life, she is the preening beak. 5 First hop’s a doozy. Readied for iridescence, her offspring brave the shock of quiet, dry air, and daylight. They carry, from this flight forward, night’s living sheen in their hollow bones. L au r i e K l e i n Image from philippajones.com. Used by permission. Bruno Liljefors, Common Swifts