Swallows
Just before the storm moves in, violet-green
swallows fly overhead.
I thought they were mayflies,
like what trout eyes see, looking up
from a plunge pool.
Like a hermit thrush being my mother’s voice
before dawn.
With nothing to measure against,
how do you size something up.
This is chasing a horizon.
This is looking valley to valley from a ridgeline
saying, it’s not all that far.
Saying, sure, we can get there by dark.
(Published in The Dodge, Spring 2024 issue.)
