Soft bulbs of morpho blue,
tight light pruned to a circuit,
the swallows feather and vector the wind.
I plume to watch, freshed in the ground;
they ring the trees as their own
sweet planets. Continuous streaks,
the green-blue preens take flying lessons,
beam to the ground they are bound by,
like no flown thing. They bring
around the ground and bright as floods
in winter, flap the wind that takes them,
pushes them into its envelope. The swallows,
so close, beat; I let them scrim
my stance, twist neatly solar.
I swallow, lift at my chest where the freckles
crack, where the wet wings gleam. Swallows
sweep out to swing my heart up with the hawk
who circles the skirmish, weeps, and screams.
Read more poetry in our current issue