This morning apple blossom, scattered by
the softest of winds, showered me like
confetti and, by chance, I looked up
into a deep, deep cobalt sky and there
they were – one, two then a third and fourth –
arriving perennially at this time
here each May. Monogamous, returning
to the same nests until they die, each
generation nesting in the empty nests –
each generation now, as it returns yearly
from the tropics, finding more and more nests
gone as buildings are renovated
and new ones built sealed as airless boxes.
Aerobatic harbingers of summer
then autumn, once flocking our suburban sky,
are becoming presagers of dearth.