I stopped scraping the manure from the ground in the pole barn and watched two barn swallows fly from nest to nest checking them out. Their white bellies shimmered in the dusty light, their sharp dark wings like reaching arms.
One landed in the edge of a nest plastered to a hand-hewn beam. She lowered her head as if assessing the damage and how much repairs would need to be done. The other never landed but circled around like a bat in an attic.
Maybe they knew I was there all along, maybe I made a slight movement or sound, or maybe it had nothing to do with me at all. But all at once they both swooped past me, through the doorway and of sight.
