Stationed with binoculars,
we watch fear and parental anxiety
perform outside our window.
Every year they come to our boxes,
and every year we wait and watch.
If my daughter calls, I say: "Can't talk;
we're watching swallows fledge."
"You're what?" she said the first time.
I used to make up excuses. Not now.

The first one zips out
and disappears into the glaring sky.
Others poke out sleek heads,
while nervous parents fly round
and round to show them how to do it.
Swoop, guys. Lean out. Flap.
Always there's a slow one
who won't come out—it tips
from the box, not daring to fly
and then, like a miracle,
it catches the air and is gone.


© by Diane Stone.
Used with the author's permission.