Its a day like this, or a near night so crisp. I hear them sing and I concentrate. My father's ears, and my grandfather's eyes Taught me to listen and to set sight, On the Swallows as they glide, whip and soar, Collecting mosquitos, gnats and more. They fly like jet planes and fill in the twilight. Crafty wing-ed acrobats each calling one another just before the night. Unmistakable chirping and singing, sets my heart a flutter. As they flip and they flit, such a view to behold. Hundreds take flight into a darting cloud. Hundreds more seem to fill the heavens, swallows darting, darting proud. I try to mimic their song, as I press my lips together and "chirp". I doubt that they are really "buying it", even though I believe its worth the work. Try as I might my "chirping" goes on in vain, Barn swallows may lend their ears, but I think its my rude presence they disdain. There is a mud nest under the eaves on a house across the way. It is tan, dry, and lined with cotton, laying above desiccated heathers. Juveniles perched just outside on an edge, from an original clutch of four, Poised and plump, and sporting blue-gray tones and some iridescence feathers. Biding their time to leave, to be finally on their own. Blue-gray tufts yield To cobalts, sapphires, and purple tones. Studded in ruddy bronze undercoats, of oranges on the mama's to be, And even darker oranges on the future father's to see.