brought beakfuls of hay, of horse hair, beakfuls of feathers
back to the grey birdhouse with light green trim. After the nest
was fashioned, after the eggs were laid, we were unable
to use our backyard because of a bird that weighed less
than an ounce. The male with the dark iridescent blue back
chattered at us, swooped at us, each wing a sharp blade glinting
in the sunlight, slashing at our hung heads, our raised shoulders.
* * *
The birdhouse has been pulled down, the tree swallows have died
and we are now bombarded by photographs taken in a war zone,
sounds recorded, letters written from a war zone. We remember
the summer our backyard was occupied by a bird, a bird able to keep
a family hostage in their own home and currently envision dozens
of airplanes, airplanes pregnant with bombs, bombs not used to protect
a brood, but “our” oil, dark and shimmery like a swallow’s back.
