They pluck flies on the fly
their wings curved like a parenthesis.
One, maybe two barn swallows
comb the field’s rising breath.

A flight pattern established
for an evening out.
Dining on the freshest food,
swallowing mosquitoes

that could sip on me like a cocktail.
Sometimes the swallows swoop
and other times they swagger.
They know what they are after.

Yesterday the barn sat with its mouth open
and swallowed one which swallowed a fly.
I don’t know why.
The barn choked and coughed it up.

Notes were taken:
We possess a barn.
The swallows possess a name.
They existed for each other for a moment.