Lit from another land and sphere and space,
cobalt forks and flying scissors arrive
on the coattails of Cupid’s lovely aim.
We prepare in vain for the swallow.
Staking its claim to a frame upon the
high plateau, home of our headwaters,
the women will arrive soon. I get it.
Too fit to be lit for long, it tucks, loops, skews,
diverting, yet with much work still cut out.
An old Delco house near, more barns in sight,
yet clearly it prefers to disturb me
in muddling, borrowing, dancing flight.
Its cup runneth over in fishing line,
horse hair, clippings of mourning dove feathers,
and I curse that the grass burrs tame its hollow.
No matter how I prepare, still, they den.
Mud knocked down from under the eaves’ lamp light
or upon stucco wall, they return – again.
Welcome back. No vacancy within.