Summer visitors, propelled
six thousand miles by a glimpse
of longer days, abundant food:
not bound by earth’s low laws,
they make their dwelling on the wing,
at home in every place and none.

Those of us with grounded feet
are also given glances of eternity’s
profusion; compelled to recreate
them with whatever comes to hand.

Sprightly migrants forging virtue
on the fly: drawn through town and
desert, searing heat and coastal
storms, to tranquil British fields:
for casual aerobatics, flights of fancy,
and roosting with the throng.

We are only truly called to
aim for farfetched feats against
the odds: pursuits beyond the
plausible, fringing on deranged.


Swallows on found wood
by Rory Clark


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