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Winter’s mud still clings to my boots
as joyful twittering
brightens the sky
above the plain and simple barn.

Amorous acrobats arc and dip,
in homecoming exuberance,
carrying the warm wet winds
of mystical places far to the south.

They look down as if to query me:
“You, who stand so heavily,
what do you know of joy?
You, whose wings hang, uselessly,
what do you know of the wind?”

In the flight of the swallows
it’s clear, I can choose.
Opening wings,
I embrace the wind.

(Text and photo: Bob Ernst)