At dawn, post haste,
The swallow’s cry
Comes swooping from the slanted tiles,
Slings itself about my neck and tells me things I half forget,
After that waking hour.
The squawkings fall
As I walk under dawn’s night-laden trees,
And with those calls, a cry descends;
Some half-heard note of company.
She, a friend from winters past,
Now carelessly thrown up,
Crowds into the day I breath
And teeters on the cusp:
A substance on the gullet creeping
Throatless from the trees at dusk,
Her disembodied cry erupts
To dash itself against me.
Against my eyes she falls once more,
As I look on, and shrink away
From all the gaggled colours there
That spill over the grey.
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