Violet Green Elegy

Arrival:

Violet Green swallows

swoop over the houses and trees,

crisscrossing the sky for insects.

The white band on their rump

distinguishes them from tree swallows.

Their nest hides behind a crevice in our porch eave –

their favored place, preferred over

the lovely birdhouse specific to their species.

No pressure washing or painting, nor roof repairs,

while babies are incubating and growing.

Life:

For eight years, this has been their nursery:

raising their babies,

swooping for food,

coaxing them to fly

high in the sky.

Always, there is one reluctant baby –

siblings soar with Mom and Dad,

but one remains, peeking from the roost.

Parents cling to the opening,


chirps encouragement.


The nestling hesitates,


pops its head out,


then hides again inside.


Departure:

Days pass in coaxing,


until at last,
with no farewell,


no fly-by,


no rooftop parade to admire—


they are gone,

leaving me bereft

on my silent front porch.

Now the display changes,

an entire family soars.

Absence:

My heart is cracking,

for my friends have left.

The front porch is quiet.

I wait there, in the loudness of the hush.

Then I hear them chittering high in the sky,

catching insects,

practicing their fighter-jet

abrupt turns and right-angle swoops.

Lessons continue: they climb

straight up and dive back down,

finishing in a swoop.

Confidence-building for the babies.

Swallows linger in the neighborhood,

then one day: silence.

I scan the horizon, breathless,

hope wrapped around me like

a bright cloak, its threads fraying

one by one. I am alone.

I listen hopefully.

Scanning the horizon,

the hope dies hard in the empty sky.

Sadness engulfs me.

Another spring with baby creatures,

and the Violet Green swallows,

now flown away. 

Return:

Next March, it will begin anew.

I will hear their call and look to the skies.

I will shout, “The Violet Greens are here!”

But now, now, I am sad.

A few of the nesting straws

poke out from the porch roof,

a reminder of loyal feathered friends.

Only a trace of them –

and their absence is a heavy load I carry.

This is the cyclic swallow life cycle

in the changing seasons:

they always return, and

then always leave.

Their thank you is the yearly visit;

the trust they lay at our feet –

we do not close the hole they swoop into,

and allow them their favored place.

Our admiration of their bug-eating abilities,

their vivid green backs dazzle us,

their incredible aerial feats amaze.

Now I’m left with porch memories

of parents swooping

over my head

to guard their babies,

and the thrill as a spectator

of their flying university

over the street -

until they return.

 Copyright © 5/8/2026 by Andrea O. Corwin Thanks for stopping by! 😃 If you like ♡ my scribbles, hit the subscribe button. Please consider leaving a comment. ✍️❤️