Swallows

To a barn in the Cambrian foothills, the Swallows arrive on cue,
trans-Saharan, self-propelled jet-setters
slung along the circadian cycle track, the celestial arc
to exactly the same spot, reclaiming their same derelict nests
as if they were full-time, registered, tax-paying residents
and had not been gallivanting
(aerial style)
for half the year and half a world away.
Nests might need repair from the depredations of rat or mice
unrightful squatters or wind and snow.
So they set to work,
multitasking with speed-dating,
to find a mate, no time to waste
– or wait!

Often mistaken for or confused with cousinly Martins
it is strange that they are no relative at all.

The fact that the latter have hardly any feet and can sleep mid-air
nor have a taste for showy housing in prime locations
or shouting about on wires
are minor blips on their look-alike rating.

But they both sliver through the air
like steely blades
roller-coasting through wormholes, down invisible shutes
stream-lining between the molecules, so sheer and sleek:
dipping and tumbling mini-ufos
gone awol – no need for brakes.

It is not long – such is the Swallows tight travel itinerary -
before the eaves and beams are alive with gaping russet throats
among a constant chittering,
as parents swoop about
dive-bombing trundling insects on the wing, in unfair advantage
- stealth bombers versus helicopters;
but still vulnerable to hawk and falcon, even the early owl,
even the prowling farm cat.

Next we know, the family bit
done and dusted
they are congregating on the telephone lines
to an accompanying crescendo of noise, sheer mass
and whizzing up and down
in a pre-take-off count-down
– or is it jitters? -
Then, on an unknown signal, a group consensus
they rise as one and are gone.
Followed by a sudden silence.
A year signed off.