A mini murmur of more than fifty
zig zags above.
Pulsing, pendulously swinging
as wide as their instincts allowed.
Bombardier wings and double knife-point tails.
Black silhouettes against the
pink and lavender November sky.
The first year’s hastily built nest
delivered 5 baby birds.
In the second year we counted 4 elegant mud nests
adorned with the black hair of my aged mare’s tail.
This year we had 9
evenly spaced throughout the
horse stalls, aisle, and hayloft.
They fledged on nature’s timeline
unpredictable.
2 fledged too early.
3 were comically late bloomers.
And the weeks in between a steady stream
of fledglings hopped on the ground
3 or 4 days before taking wing.
There were so many babies.
We scraped their manure
off the floors daily.
We swerved our heads
to avoid collisions
while doing barn chores
in their busy flight paths.
A colony of swallows devours
flies and spiders, all summer long.
Their melodious social chatter
and gargoyle posture
amuses.
Their backs are glossy, tinged
with the most exquisite shade of blue.
Crystal Zinn lives in Orleans.
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