Crows descry the sky,
desecrate the cyanic,
scrying and crying.

Swallows, I swear, not
Swifts; but swift—swoop, swivel—whose
scissored silhouettes,

belated, become
a quibble of pipistrelles,
tippling acrobats.

Who haunts the hill? Lo,
one-note woe: Oh well, twilight
throws in the towel.