Tiny aeronauts in black and white
perform parabolas in flight
scoop their fill of gossamer wings
that cloud oblivious, numberless things.
Over rivers, mostly can be seen
high speed channel-skimming feats between
the banks and bridges, earth and sky,
the air made loose in which to fly.
But memory swoops as fast and free
and straight a thought returns to me:
a rock-strong refuge from the blast
where welcome peace, long years had passed;
a chance to mend and spirits lift,
when through the open doors, a swift
came flying in to find his rest,
and so were we, two pilgrims, blessed.
Estaing, June 2011
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