Swifts

In the absence of the right temperament,

I’m astonished by the arrival

of a pair of black swifts,

screeching towards early evening,

disappearing, appearing again,

heralds of summer, of change,

here in a world that’s already changed.

The path from fear to irritation and from

irritation to longing’s unknown to them,

just the route between suns,

one over Africa, one over here.

Faced with their clean energy,

I’m ashamed: my inertia

on another long slow afternoon.

It can’t be the beginning

because nothing has ended.

Time passes unpredictably

and attempts to understand events

are like attempts to sew

clothing without needles and pattern.

And right here on the abandoned pavement

between home and the non-stop shop,

it’s as if the only things

which might make sense

aren’t ordinary human sounds,

but the sweet shrieks of these birds

that are winding through the sky

like signs of an alternative future.