Working in the garden and the air full of swooping swallows.
Not our pair and their brood but over twenty carving perfect arcs out of a blue sky, passing near enough for me to hear their wings.
Swooping over the house, down to the pond, mysterious, intense, focussed.
Is this what they must do to know how to return?
They gather on the telephone wires.
Don't go. Don't go.
I am not ready.