Swallows of Capistrano

Remember
the fork tailed swallows
swooping and dipping
in the warm air currents,
our own hearts light
as scarves?

After you left me,
I was a mess,
everything an effort–going
to work, making dinner–
my heart heavy,
weighted in muck.

I glance at the tourists,
half-expecting to see you,
the crowds thinning on this,
San Juan’s Day,
like a kettle’s dying
steam.

A swallow hangs
high above the stone mission,
one of the last swallows
leaving Capistrano
for Argentina

–but my heart has no place
to winter. Like me
it has become a stranger
in Capistrano,
with no where
to go.

by Bob Bradshaw

Editor’s Note: This poem of loss is made all the more poignant by the real life story of the swallows disappearing.