Gay Cannon at One Stop Poetry ask for poems this week, in iambic pentameters - blank verse.  This effort is reasonably blank, if not exactly pentametric

I'll be a fly-by-night who, poised
where gravity forbids a single step
interrogates the breeze, then ventures.
There's a lurch than churns the entrails, till
blind trust in the wing thats vectors
earth and air arrests the chasm plunge
and lifts me, harnessed to the wind's trapeze.
Night is as indigo as dreams.
I might be manta, bat or privateer
with all seven stars to plunder,
a scaly dactyl rattling down the thermals,
spars like grating talons clamped
on a nightmare Icarus.  I swoop
where small lights blink,  where pines conspire
with the wind's edge, indistinct.
I shift my emphasis.
My laugh drifts from the ridge.
A farm dog curls into his own fretful whine.
Perhaps the goodwife, spine chilled, gaze upthrown,
will glimpse my witchcraft split the risen moon.