Belly full,

he drops down

from the echoing room of night.

One last swift swoop,

one last bug plucked from air

with cupped tail,

scooped neatly to mouth.


 As dark grows thin

and body heavy,

he tumbles to tree

and grasps bark,

folds that swirl of cape

tipped with tiny claws

and snags the spot

that smells like home.


 Then . . . upside flip,

lock-on grip . . .

stretch, hang, relax.

Yawn . . .

dawn.