"the swans" and "the chimney swifts"
the swans
Two weeks pass, then three. I lose count in the waiting, and then, suddenly, the nest is empty. I know what will be at the bend in the river: two made four, or five, or six. The reeds sway; the lily pads glisten. Among the green are three slender lines, serpentine, spelling out the ending of the story. But no, I’m wrong, reading into it what I never longed for. The little life made of grey feathers punctuates the end of one sentence, signals the start of another, all gliding in and out of my understanding. The untranslatable swim through the glowing water, catching the light of the late morning sun. Somewhere in the telling, I’ll find it: the next sentence, shaped like a swan.
the chimney swifts
Most of their lives are spent in the air. Even when they land, they remain upright, unrelenting to gravity. Looking up, I see them dancing: dart and flit, spin and twirl, voices a constant chorus, following a rhythm only they can hear. Like me, they live among brick and stone. Like me, they flock to the necessary. Like me, they are curious enough to fly thousands of feet above themselves to see what the world is made of. I want to sit down and ask them, What is it like, then, to be so weightless? So above it all? I like to think their beetle-bright eyes would flash as they answered, I don’t understand the question. I am as earthbound as you are.
