Little Swift

Outside, they dive
          over the circle pattern
                  the mower made
                          in the spring green grass,

  like a rippling pool
          set in its motion by a child’s stone.
                  The dark birds pump
                          their wings, spiral down.

  For what purpose? 
          Up and down, they swim
                  on air, chirping their talk
                          to one another, then skimming

  high, towards the window,
          pulling up just in time.
                  This is the flying and feeding lesson!
                          Yes, that’s it!

  So few large bodies among them,
          and so many tufts
                  of gray still holding on.
                          They leap from the nests

  above, the house’s alcove, trusting
          divine mechanics and wind. 
                  They part with their morning
                          songs and display

  now that I know,
          returning to fly higher, prove
                  themselves daring and lower
                          to chase the insect delights.

  They play as if this was natural
          in the world, as if wonder
                  was easy to summon,
                          an ease in which to live.