After the tall yellowed grass 
of late summer is mown 
white-bellied swallows 
Ta chi ci ne tas
pour from mud-daubed 
barn rafter nests 
to feast 
wide-mouthed in motion 
blue green backs
        shimmer-skimming 
with streamer tails 
         along insect trails 

We'd seen their babies 
stubbly bald heads 
raised above nest's lip
with flap-open mouths wide
three or four waiting 
for delivery of smallest
motes of a meal

We'd seen then 
their first fledged flights
brief 
darker chests heaving 
along fence rail 
or barn roof spine 
until a signal
to try again

Each season we'd fish one 
out of the horse trough 
its impossibly light and lifeless body 
sodden 
saddened we'd carry it 
to thicker berry bramble 
wishing that the soaring circles of its siblings 
would not have lost this smallest bit of bird 

There are different kinds of leaving 
different kinds of journeys 
but when the swallows are gone 
the sky seems empty