Swifts (2)

At twilight the swifts have no power,
to hold back that pale blue coolness.
It bursts from throats, a clamour
an outpour that can't grow less.
The swifts have no way, high
up there, overhead, of restraining
their clarion cries: 'O, triumph,
see, see, how the earth's receding!'
Like steam from a boiling kettle,
the furious flow rushes by -
'See, see - no space for the earth
between the ravine and the sky.'