Through the splintered cracks in the shutters,

I see a barn swallow toiling in the heat.

His tawny feathers are sparse, his forked tail clipped.

 

Under the porch rafters,

he makes his home in mine. He eats the

moths and caddisflies that I dare not touch.

 

By the end of the summer, he sits

atop four freckled eggs. He sings to them

each night, soft and somberly sweet.

 

But his warbling has roused the ire

of the neighborhood boys. They fill their

slingshots with small, smooth stones and topple the nest.

 

I chase them away, but a viscous yellow stains

my floorboards. The insects will soon grow into

thick, rasping swarms.