I Only Know That Summer Sang In Me
...Thus in the winter stands the lonely tree,
Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one,
Yet knows its boughs more silent than before:
I cannot say what loves have come and gone,
I only know that summer sang in me
A little while, that in me sings no more.
--Edna St. Vincent Millay
The swallows are gone.
It took me a while to notice; the magpies and crows were making a fair ruckus. But then I looked up and noticed how empty the sky was.
Just yesterday I watched the fledglings stretch their wings. A family was perched under the eaves in front of the shop. The youngsters have duller breasts than the adults--that seemed the only distinguishing feature from ground level. Above them swirled the cloud of swallows we have played host to this summer, diving and swerving, filling the air with their merry cries.
Then, overnight, the sky is silent and still.
What primal pulse beat across the midnight sky to call them away from summer's pastures and fields? It boggles the mind. It is a month past the equinox and now they have launched themselves out onto the wave of time, riding the crest of summer to the south as our days shorten and the wildflowers go to seed. They live in an eternal summer.
As the flush of high summer starts--imperceptibly--to fade, I await the evitable autumn and wish our swallows well until next year.
Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one,
Yet knows its boughs more silent than before:
I cannot say what loves have come and gone,
I only know that summer sang in me
A little while, that in me sings no more.
--Edna St. Vincent Millay
The swallows are gone.
It took me a while to notice; the magpies and crows were making a fair ruckus. But then I looked up and noticed how empty the sky was.
Just yesterday I watched the fledglings stretch their wings. A family was perched under the eaves in front of the shop. The youngsters have duller breasts than the adults--that seemed the only distinguishing feature from ground level. Above them swirled the cloud of swallows we have played host to this summer, diving and swerving, filling the air with their merry cries.
Then, overnight, the sky is silent and still.
What primal pulse beat across the midnight sky to call them away from summer's pastures and fields? It boggles the mind. It is a month past the equinox and now they have launched themselves out onto the wave of time, riding the crest of summer to the south as our days shorten and the wildflowers go to seed. They live in an eternal summer.
As the flush of high summer starts--imperceptibly--to fade, I await the evitable autumn and wish our swallows well until next year.
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