Barn Swallows

They’ve been back a few weeks,

bringing joy to our open field.

Tap dancers on tufts of spring breezes,

short spurts of song attending.

 

Slipping in and out of our barn,

nests are sprigged, and detailed

for another generation of acrobats;

those aeronautical exemplars of sky.

 

Cats lean against the door.

I imagine cigarettes bobbing

out of their mouths, as they discuss

the exploits of the day.

 

Their disregard for field mice,

those punks, beads for eyes,

little pipsqueaks of manic form.

So cat cliché, so old school.

 

Then a Cheshire grin settles

under their whiskers as

they look up with angel eyes

of insidious intent.

 

Feline felons in wait.

Butts are tossed, while

crouching coils their springs.

Hopes of swallowing a swallow.

 

I’ve never seen cats jump so high.

Rite of Spring

Common Grackles rested

on the naked Maple canopy.

Like aneurysms waiting

to burst into flight

they bent the thinning branches.

 

They had every rite of spring.

Some of them loitered

through the winter

and saw their reflections on ice.

What freedom to stay.

 

Christ stayed on the tree

and burst unto death

and burst into flight.

 

Birds over Computer Fan

The rite of spring is singing louder.

Louder than my computer fan.

The blue jays are shouting.

The robins are talking over the fence.

The sparrows and chickadees are speed dialing.

 

This is the first spring in the country.

The window is cupped open.

My ears are too,

and the sounds send me back

 

to a dead end street of so much traffic.

Starlings would bounce from shrub to shrub.

Plump orange bellies would bow and pull up breakfast.

 

I could almost hear baby-blue

eggs cracking.

 

Oh how I miss my mother brooding over us.

 

 

© Gerald Allen Barrett and parentheticallyspeakingin3d, 2012.