The swallows and martens are fluttering furious:
they have been joined by the aristocracy, the racing set,
a flash-harry ferrari driving hooligan whistling pair
of swifts.
I have never seen them here before:
twice the size and speed,
screaming as they chase wildly around the rooves
exhilarating as kids in a playground
or sleek oarsmen driven forward by deft sculls
over calm water.
They disturb the residents who harass them as they approach their mud homes,
bracketed to my walls
they require a nest:
even with midsummer past
they can still raise a brood fit for the long journey
away from leaf-fall.
If only they stay now-
and maybe long summers yet to come.


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