The swallows of April

It was this April,

or perhaps it was last,

I stood on the Kaw River Bridge,

one foot on the low rail,

my arms resting on the top,

my shadow far down below

in the brown rippled water.

The swallows are stitching

their pattern again,

but last year’s seems different,

somehow, and maybe it was the swallows

and I think that I cast no shadow then.

There goes one, back electric blue,

wings beating hard

against a cold, hard wind,

flying low and fast just above

the wind caps of the river.

Another, back colored in the color

of a soft pink rose.

Straight ahead, curled turn,

beating and gliding,

backs of swallows and more swallows

reflecting up into my eyes.

I didn’t measure.

I didn’t count.

I’m sure they did what they did

well before I came,

and will, after I have gone.

Stitching. Stitching.

I saw more than one swallow

with a brilliant blue back,

but they merely flew

over the water

like swallows do.