Where I live, summer begins with a single shadow flickering across the yard. One shadow, then another; and then, immediately, several presences, weaving through the warm air. Another moment, and I realise that the swallows are back. It’s an ordinary and altogether predictable realisation – and yet, I am always surprised by how much it gladdens me.
This is a real event, one of several throughout the year: the first, tender green of bud break, say, or that crisp, cold evening when the first real snow begins to fall – pagan events that reconnect me to the place where I and, for the next few months, these swallows belong.
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