Sacred swallows (a poem)

I am not indifferent

to the swallows

who chirp and fly 

in the open space

at the end of my street. 

From my balcony

I see their festivities

when the world is quiet

and the sky is pale

But as the day sets in

and the sky grows bluer

their chirps get quieter

or rather -

everything else gets louder.

The delivery truck

unloading teas and tomatoes

at the natural food store across the way.

The city bus 

starting its route

down the one-way street. 

The sidewalk cafés

setting up and filling up 

with breakfast visitors.

And my own world gets noisy, too.

My son calling for me,

my almost-audible to-do list in my head,

pings of messages on my phone,

the hustle and bustle of morning busy-ness. 

The swallows carrying on

rejoicing their flying grub. 

Their high-pitched noise in the background now

merely a memory of music.

 

I often wonder

why else hears them?

Who else notices, or cares?

 

I often forget

to check at midday

as I cross the street

or wait for the bus

to look up and see if they are still there

above the city din

flying free

in circles and wider circles

high and low.

 

And if not - where do they go?

When it gets busy and noisy?

Where is their refuge from it all?

 

These reminders of Nature

omnipresent and unconditional

always there to pull us back to her

and to ourselves.

 

To remind us

not to be

indifferent.