WE think of swifts as delightful summer visitors to Britain, but the birds give as much pleasure to onlookers in the New World, as this poem from David Baker’s new collection Scavenger Loop (W. W. Norton, $16.95 USA; £22.95 Canada) demonstrates. A recipient of many academic and literary honours, Baker lives in Granville, Ohio.

SWIFT

1.

into flight, the name as velocity,

a swift is one of two or three hundred

swirling over the post office smokestack.

First they rise come dusk to the high sky,

flying from the ivy walls of the bank

a few at a time, up from the graveyard oaks

and backyards, then more, tightening to orbit

in a block-wide whirl above the village.

2.

Now they are a flock. Now we’re holding hands.

We’re talking in whispers to our kind, who

stroll in couples from the ice cream shop

or bike here in small groups to see the birds.

A voice in awe turns inward; as looking

down into a canyon, the self grows small.

The smaller swifts are larger for their singing,

the spatter and shrill, the high cheep of it.

3.

And their quick bat-like alternating wings.

And the soft pewter sky sets off the black

checkmark bodies of the birds as they skitter

like water toward a drain. Now one veers,

dives, as if wing-shot or worse out of the sky

over the maw of the chimney. Flailing –

but then pulling out, as another dips

and the flock reverses its circling.

4.

They seem like leaves spinning in a storm,

blown wild around us, and we are their witness.

Witness the way they finish. The first one

simply drops into the flu. Then four,

five, in as many seconds, pulling out of

the swirl, sweep down. So swiftly, we’re alone.

The sky is clear of everything but night.

We are standing, at a loss, within it.