by Pavel Chichikov
Wait, wait, you won't have long to wait
Swallows swift across the meadow pass you
Quick, now, and then
Wings scimitar and warp to lift them up,
They levitate and chopstick black mosquitos
Blank as bullets
Catch one speedbird with an eye, but even then
No blink to see an instant elevation
Drop again and glide away
Brown blades their wings the swallows cut and slash
Broad evening into slices
Thin as microtomes
They skid against the humid air, twist attitude –
What fine control of ailerons
No fin above the long forked tail
Now at last like bullets fed from rifle barrels
Through the windows of the stable speed –
Down aisles they find their nests
They are the feeders of the afternoon –
In they come and leave the world to bats
And now to dusk the world
Soon above the hay-soft cells, on narrow ledges
Repose begun in cup-shaped beds
Made of meadow grasses
The fawn breasts settle one by one above the stalls
Crouch quiet-winged, round heads
Small eyes black buttons
Beneath them horses shuffle, blow and snuff
Wait also through this night and every night
For one who soon must come
One dove-like hen, heart pressed against her tiny egg
Lets rest her scissor tail outstretched –
Like this the world
Visit Pavel's website at Grey Owl Press.
