the swallow's wings used to beat against those gray boards near our gutters
just below the apex of our roof
they carried mud, sticks, feathers
and raised their family inside this warm home just outside our own
their young would squawk at dawn
hungry for a meal
just like we were
a man in a strange truck arrived one day with foil and a tall ladder
a few moments of hammering, and he was gone
in the wake of exhaust, he left a few strips of foil, a mangled nest and the echo of destruction in my room
those swallows never returned
their protected home remained silent
except for the occasional rustle of aluminum in the wind
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