with a vast swoop, your forked tails
underdive, no pause in the flock—
a begging call, then the simple twitter,
wingfeathers swept back against wind.
One thousand trips for mud, my dear.
Now the overpass holds the nest; soft bowl
shaped of twigs & necessity, and I can’t trace
patterns followed or names carried
before mine—wide-spread barn yell
traveling home—on the far side of the lee.
Blue-black upper, off-white under,
iridescent wings, and a worm—please swallow.