It’s a season of reunion. Outside, everything is returning—color, sound, scent. Thunder in the skies, frogs in the marshes, neighbors on balconies. And just last week, swallows in the fields.

Swallows
by Leonora Speyer

They dip their wings in the sunset,
They dash against the air
As if to break themselves upon its stillness;
In every movement, too swift to count,
Is a revelry of indecision.
A furtive delight in trees they do not desire
And in grasses that shall not know their weight.

They hover and lean toward the meadow
With little edged cries;
And then,
As if frightened at the earth’s nearness,
They seek the high austerity of evening sky
And swirl into its depth.