It's late April.
I sight a swallow
clearly blue
against a bright sky
and failing sun.
Such relief really,to see this hungry bird,
chirping and sputtering
far softer sounds than gulls.
No one can come for the lights.
It's easy, I'm told, and
emboldened, clamp wires, cover them.
Switching to on, a pop, the singular note of a swallow, divorced from song,
carries along an arc of light.
Frightened, I switch everything off.
Think.
On the internet, I listen, follow as instructed,
check, change.
Oh, my sister says, you didn't know?
No.
Learning as I go.
That electric arc seemed iridescent blue, to grow a tail,
and the sound grew wings too.
After corrections,
I understand separations,
follow a welcome silence into the kitchen light,
now functioning,
and out into dusk.
The swallow I had sighted,
flying too high,
has stopped to rest on the terrace.
We're eyeing one another when
she suddenly lifts,
descends
into the shadows of the trees below.
