Ian M. Emberson
Swift and Waterfall
Swooping – gliding – diving – swirling – ever on the wing, the swift
flies against the storm clouds – homeward. Yet is not the air its home? – living on the wing – hunting on the wing – sleeping on the wing – even making-love on the wing. But it must touch earth sometime, to build its nest – to rear its young. Yet its tiny legs are only capable of clinging onto the wall of the cave. And it flies now towards that cave - flies through the dawn and the day, the dusk and the night.
Now it is over land – dense forest lies below. A river valley narrows – high precipices are on either side. And suddenly there is the waterfall, and beyond it the cave. Straight into the spume of spray it flies – and vanishes.
Page(s) 143
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