Читать книгу Post- - Wayne Miller - Страница 12

SWALLOWS

We place our blanket—

the child inside you

and you and I

radiating from her.

We open our books;

the arbor curls over.

Then: swallows

skimming the surface

of the field

as if on lines, glinting

like hydrofoils

cutting a bay.

Today we saw

the child move sharply

in the dark of you—

though still

just sand in a screen,

her 2-D cockpit.

And now: swallows

scratching lines

on the glass of the air.

To the child curled

in her window

of sound

we are nothing.

We watched her heart

blur and unblur—

a deepwater vent.

See the birds

skim the field, then rise

to the trees: that one,

now that one—

dozens of them

dipping and cutting

in Romantic abandon,

such flawless

precision!—

(Let’s remember:

this is how they feed—)