Morning in Valencia
Swallows fill my head circling in floaty arcs hungry for bugs. They find what they need and coast until the urge hits them again. Swallows aren’t exotic, but everything is something else, and this place is not my home. My last night before Spain, I passed a woman watering plants on her porch, so casual in her address I cried through the wisteria: you get to stay, you get to stay. I do know about my luck— rolling my r’s like I am someone else, the lure of the Holy Grail, Shrine of St. Vincent the Martyr’s bejeweled arm. I’d give my own arm for a porch ringed with friends unafraid to talk. Meanwhile, my avian social circle swoops this green tiled balcony sucking up insects. So here we are, making do with each other another morning in the hazy filter of clouds, swallows dipping for more of what’s theirs, time in my hands while I wait to say goodbye. Carol Louise Munn Originally published in Equinox Journal
from Spirits and Gnats (Kelsay Books, forthcoming)