Crooked Wings

It's said, the swallows come to Capistrano
every year to see out winter's cold,
an advent that's been noted in each anno
domini the Mission bells have tolled
since 1812. Their nests, like little huts
of mud, accumulate among the vaults
the quake brought down, above the fallen struts.
They're not concerned by geologic faults.

I fear this state lies too far from the sun
for swallows. Other harbingers must bring
the welcome news that winter's finally done.
The crooked shadow of an osprey's wing,
a feathered scimitar, curves down and by
carving a slice of summer from the sky.

Collection available! Knocking from Inside