It’s the job of the swifts this late July evening — the air almost too humid to cut through, but they do, the slim curved blades of dark they are, against its pink-grey… As we sit, words done for the day, they are shaving the edge of our silence, at the open windows, cutting level and low as if to make themselves particularly heard, each squeal-sweep stripping a sliver off what we are holding in this room. Not diminishing it. Rather, polishing the edges of the space with finer, finer abrasions. Like waves on a shore. They are making it clearer; cut glass or rock crystal come alive with points of light and dark inside… an inside which is just the world around it, all the outside focused inward. Concentrated. Now.
*
words
swift
edges
touch by touch
finessing
clarity
