Their small wings fan no breeze as they ascend but, twittering in their high and secret ways, the swallows know that something's in the wind. A spider strokes the moth caught in its snare. Along the brittle lawn, some starlings graze. A mantis raises jeweler's hands in prayer, caresses with its Torquemada gaze the twitching cricket with whose flesh it plays. Beside its hole, a fretful chipmunk stands its guard.
Ants disappear into their maze.
The swallows know that something's in the wind. No one watches with me. They can't bear to be here at the ending of the days. The far horizon brightens, and its flare ignites the leaves and sets the air ablaze. Forget the songs of Spring the poets praise - this is mankind's fall.