Dusky crag-martin

There’s mischief outside my window —
a little black bird pretending to be a fish!
Like a wave, she drifts through the sky,
dives straight down and moves
just as quickly upwards to startle the wind.
Like the weight of a breeze on my palm
she is hardly there,
twisting mid-air to the sounds of general living.
Her tiny wings just two strokes of paint,
her beak, a single dot,
her chirps as loud as the wind swooning by;
I am yet to see her feet,
her fine tail runs seamlessly from the length of her body.
She is like a punctuation mark chasing
an incomplete sentence.
To call her a bird would be prosaic,
she is a poem in the sky.