For the dverse prompt.

Watching the swallows gather, stringing their smart white shirts and dark tails along the wires, like guests at a wedding, waiting for the bride, I feel the sharp turn the wind has taken. Wires sway and trees sway and the world sways in the gusts from the north. Feathers flutter and birds bunch, leaning one against the other. Are they whispering, is it time? The sea awaits, le grand bleu, and it gets no smaller for the waiting. The south calls— is it time? —beyond the deserts, Saharan, Arabian—why so far?

Hundreds gather in black tails, itching for the off, skimming the last mosquitoes, and I watch the last, the lingerer on the telephone wire. All of summer is in those sleek plumes, sunbeams in the darting flight, the endless chatter of bird voices. Do you not wish to end the summer quite yet? Can…