Near and dear to our trough and crest wavelength
sits a swallow of indeterminate proportion
(likely due to a lack of perspective).
It coos the way only a swallow can,
taking all of its learning into account—
that’s right, all twenty-seven hours and sixteen minutes
of learning administered by its very own mother
before unexpectedly losing nest privileges.
Every note tinged with sorrow
for losing its childhood home,
the swallow innately understands
that tragedy begets beauty. So it belts.
It takes all the air it can possibly pull
into its feathery balloon body
and churns it into the equivalent of church,
every chance it gets.
It sings along with everything it hears,
understanding the whirr and the hum
of all life around it.
It nestles between the blankets of noise
it’s always encountering, placing harmony in chaos.
Few swallows have been given
the gift of self-awareness,
and this one dreams of being a performer.
Every day it sits on a wire by itself
in a crowded urban-industrial area
for the sole purpose of chasing away its demons
with interactive improvisation. And damn, is it good.
WHARVED 