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.