I have swallows behind my back building nests of mud in the eaves of the next day. Holly, holly, holly, doesn’t grow here in the sun that shines warm through cool air still. I sit and have black birds bending the limber limbs of young trees, balancing for a child’s delight then leaving for more solid limbs, while I reach into myself to feel this quiet morning light this place I have to sit and think.

June 1971