augury doggerel

Sunday, June 02, 2002


At evening here when the air is a standing pool of blue and hopeful insects come out to wine and dine abob cool space, the swallows curl and scree through the still. We stand below and see only the whirling outlines of bird and bird weaving. What the swallow sees makes it scream and dive: soft insects, in delicate courtship, fanning transparent wings over thin feelers and long legs. They know only one, then two, then one, then nought.


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