hirundo rustica

it was sad to see them go.

their orange breasts peaked in the early morning hours
when they'd dive bomb passers with their eager chit-chit chit-chit-chit;
signaling warning signs that were mostly signs of defeat,
but we'd recognize their bravery anyway.

(it would remind me of you.
the one so eloquent in action that it'd be hard to see
from an outside perspective that the bravery inside you was the
reaction of earlier interactions gone astray.
you're so polite, baby, because they made you that way.
just like them you're brave.
you step forward and greet every day with that dimpled smile -
you floor me with it's ingenuity.)

by early june they'd be gone.
the nest, though empty, resonates with their call:
this time, not the warning of defeat, but of happiness.
the babies had safely left the nest in one way or another,
following along that path that makes every living thing every living thing.

and in the back of my mind, it might have been sad -
maybe for a moment or two, walking barefooted down that cement path.
only sad until i remembered, with all of a memory's glory:
they'll be back next year.