I see swallows swarming, high in Darwin’s sky,
beyond the canvas sail beside the pool.
I can only just discern them if I try,
they teem so deeply into the godlike blue.
Their wings trace fleeting, perfect arcs,
graceful, quick, each swerving dive and swoop––
as maestros might caress the pulse of Bach,
or gymnasts coax long ribbons into loops.
Purer though, these fractal blooms of flight,
without the halting weight of human plan,
only press of wind and speed and light
to guide their gliding nuance and deft scan.
O that in this pool, the blue god’s daughter,
my strokes might curve so sweetly through the water.

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