This is the year when the swallows did not come back

you have not noticed

now all spring the evenings’ messages are no longer passing through the feet of swallows lined up in a row holding you under the high strung sparks of their voices

with the notes of that music changing as once more they would go sailing out and once more singly or in pairs or several together across the long light they would skim low over the gardens and down the steep pastures and over the river and would come back to their places to go on telling what was there while it was there

you do not hear what is missing