The light has starved to death.
Not even a black patch
covers the lake’s empty eye.

No ducks or geese are
etching glass. The green fortresses 
where the redwings flew as 
turret flags are crumpled cardboard.

I remember the last skim of life
when a storm front of white egrets
flashed like lightning bolts
and the fish and frogs were gone.

How do you find wonder in a faceless 
smudge, haunted by the shimmering loss?
For even a puddle could be a masterpiece 
at dawn.

Barn swallows ink
the twilight sky. I think it’s
cursive calligraphy with its
flowery loops and flow.
Their cheerful chittering 
proclaims this work of art 
a feasting song, for they 
are devouring sixty mosquitoes 
per bird an hour. And I am fishing,
resting under their protective
bubble beside their bridge. 
The colony of mud-cupped nests
are fixed beneath. They swoop in 
to feed their ravenous young, 
then rocket off again.

Lavender clouds cast lilac flowers, 
their reflections almost perfume
the dying light. For a few flickering
moments the swallows are writing twice.
I lay my pole down. It feels irreverent 
to think about breaking this stained glass.
I settle into this peace, shielded 
under the poetry of birds.