Circling and turning above my head, the swallow plays with it’s
shadow, reflecting in the river’s afternoon haze.
To my left, the popping of tennis balls, on a soft clay court,
children’s laughter; rises over rooftops and into backyards.
To my right, an old man and his white steel cane; scrape and jolt
along the river’s stony path.
Two children kneel by the water, they wait and squabble.
Farmers’ burn their grass, the heavy smoke smarts my eyes
I take a sigh and try to forget the hour.
By Belinda Johnston