Maybe it’s a particular kind of grace, the way this wild morning a family of swallows
ls harvesting the cloudy air. Harnessed to its wheels and pulleys, they harness
The hlast to their own advantage, or stop on it for a second before letting its breath
Take them where it will, their small streamlined bodies abroad and at home
In its hugeness, their screams carried off so I can catch only the faintest trace
Where I stare through the kitchen window, awake to these tiny life bundles in their
Daily negotiations with the great unnamable force that lives in things, the way
They’re beyond complaint, too busy living to be bogged down in any regret
Over sudden swerves of weather, beyond even contentment, having only this instant
Quick knowledge the moment gives them, and how to go on making the most of it.