Fr Bobby Gilmore wrote this last year as he watched the swallows gather on the roof in the sun as they prepared to leave.
The Chill
As if awakening to the tinkle of alarm clock
On cue they arrived from a seeming elsewhere
Lining up on the apex of the roof
In single file facing south
Like recruits awaiting inspection and orders
Moments of soundless immobility
Then without bugle, flag or starter’s gun
Taking temporary flight around the corner of the building
They went through a hazardous half hour of noisy warm up
Twisting, twirling, turning in out and around
Chirping in delightful symphony
Anticipating a big inherited unannounced event
A going-away party celebration
For the journey
The goal familiar to some
New to most
Suddenly silence stillness
A vacant empty space-gone
Departure to a warmer clime
What was the signal to depart?
Next morning Jack Frost arrived.