Waiting for Swallows

One swallow doesn’t make a summer. Still, it’d be a start.

I remember them chippering and sickle-winged, hurling themselves across the sky. But several years ago, they left. And just like summer, they never came back.

Now, we have the same grey day, every day. Occasionally the air is lively with drizzle. I’ve lost track of how long it’s been February.

Sometimes, people trundle past in creaking carts, their belongings tied to the back under pregnant tarpaulins.

They’re summerhunters. Going south to find the swallows.

But not us. We’ve stayed here this long. And maybe the sun will shine tomorrow.