There are two swallows
standing on the porch railing
of our rented house at the beach
eyeing the ladybug
my daughter has named Dimitri.
Iridescent doesn’t begin
to describe the sheen of their blue black,
and orange feathers
punching my tired eyes
with their joy.
I could try to write a poem,
obliquely, about the day,
the wizened 100 year old house,
the photo of the tall ship
wrecked on that rock out there in 1913.
Try to sneak up on them.
I was put here to try,
still as Neahkanie rock,
with my Bukowski and my cigar,
knowing there is no way.
