The swallows are playing symphonies in the key of Air
Among the tops of the fir trees,
Their many movements orchestrated with rolls and crescendoing spins
As they follow some unseen score.
There are two tiny bright blue dragon flies conducting my door,
Waiting for the right moment to land, to tap and flick their wings
Waiting for things to settle. They have my attention.
And the great green sea of my garden
Which has lately been bowing under the steady staccato of rain
Is also rising, rising to the great light ordering their clefs and times;
Poised, to my eye, for their music is a slow harmonic drone under the swallows,
But still moving always toward the Solstice and the fulfillment of their stanzas.
Sidney Barthell
Photo Credit: Lazlo Gyorsok
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