Every year at the farm, barn swallows arrive on May 1 and depart September 1. They are rarely late arriving and I can already see they are packing their bags for the trip south. Their work is almost done. Their young, who just weeks ago we lined up on the farm fence learning to fly, have joined them in the air dancing and diving for flying insects. Their nests, which they used to visit every few minutes to feed their young, are used only at night. Their young, who used to crouch on buildings before their next short flight, are now wizards of air, masters of flight.

In the evenings when I go out to close in the chickens, I look forward to seeing these amazing swallows making impossible dips, hops and swerves in the air. When they leave, a kind of silence and stillness overtakes the place as if part of a painting has been brushed out. Next spring, though, the painting will be complete again and the task of creating new life will begin for another season.

It has never happened before, but maybe this year they will send me a postcard, maybe at Christmas.