Swing Shift at the Fire House

is not what it used to be,

not fire trucks of motion.

Metallic ricochets that

clanged through the hall.

Swing shift at the Firehouse

lights up the evening.

Limbs moving become

shadows on the walls.

Syncopated together,

flow and rhythm

sparkle in sunlight

on musical tide.

Fire trucks

morph to mavens,

sway like eel grass

rushing together

past rushes, streams.

Transmuted and tranquil,

morph into stardust,

rise as a river

want to raise.

Gravity loses meaning as

they float through skylights.

BRD is a twinkle

of stars in dark sky.

Becomes Constellation,

revelation that we see.

I struggle to name it. How’s

The Dreamscape of She’s?