Last night, Himself and I sat on the veranda after dinner, watching the restless sky, which seethed with pewter-grey clouds.
‘Look,’ he said. ‘Swallows!’
‘Sure,’ said I. ‘Make a liar of me.’
And I told him about the day’s post, written just hours before, in which I had said no swallows swoop and soar over our garden.
But I looked up and, sure enough, overhead flew a dozen, maybe a score, of swallows. They passed high above, darted into the silver mist, and circled briefly over the towering trees at the wood’s edge, and disappeared. Perhaps the storm and heavy rain had driven them from the river. Who knows?
Far from making a liar of me, their passage underscored my point.
For though we are less than a kilometre from the river, they didn’t linger here. The swallows dance no dance for us; we are just part of the patchwork of green, brown, grey and dun, the maze of concrete, asphalt, stucco and brick, over which they pass.