Sit with me, here in this place.
The hill slopes down to the road, and the road leads back into town. To the left, shading a ravine, there is a line of trees, some of them old. And that’s where the swallows live. You can hear them - they’re not quiet; they’re talking, planning. And then they’re in the sky.
The birds group and rise together, they pause (or seem to), then bank left and right, then fall and rise again. Together. A rolling mass, a single mind (or so they say), against a fading afternoon’s deep blue sky and a line of near-perfect clouds, stuffed and lolling over our heads.
There is an unsteady poignance. This is beautiful, but it can’t last. It’s balanced on a pedestal, and it’ll fall, eventually. We’ll fall, eventually.
(Think about Tintern Abbey. Remember that line "almost suspended" - what did Wordsworth mean, if not this?)
Let’s enjoy it while we can.
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