Barn swallows skim the meadow breathing the summer scent of dry grass and dandelion, maneuvering tails as precise as parabolas, open mouths to catch flies with slight sideways snatches, sleek indigo wings dodge swaying heads of Harding grass, avoiding thickets of bracken fern, rust-colored torsos soar up and over, climb into the mild blue sky, sharing the day’s innate grace. How do they learn to trust that air will hold them, that wings will take them, that they are sufficient unto themselves?
Mary Thibodeaux Lentz
This article appears in ‘Come Back Young Again’.