Amongst the scents of watching summer:
sweet lilies and petunias,
cracked eggshells and tiring grass;
the fallen swift lay alone,
lost and empty.
“Fill me! Fill me!” his fledgling’s cry,
and age-lined leaves rustled in reply:
“Look up, look up – recall the joys
of air and sky you felt just once
(before you hit the ground)”
He looked, and called, and looked again.
The leaves watched till it grew dark,
and in the morning, he was gone.