They are back in Iowa: our prairie version of the swallows that return to Capistrano though they arrive with less fanfare taking their places in the tall grass beside the roads or in the untended fields. Out walking I hear them making their variable announcements. One or two actually sound like a minor problem with the ignition–something is wrong with the magneto–they give up a metallic spattering although they sound happy about it. If I could see them I’d know why they’re happy–I mean I’d see it for myself as opposed to merely saying it. They are alive. They are in love with the new green that’s everywhere, even inside their hollow bones. And they are beautiful. They are jet black and red as the occult hopes of palm readers and they talk from the tops of fence posts. They are birds of the hot weather. They are the advance guard of summer. They brought me some swift joy today, doubly good for its being unexpected; doubly good because I was worrying about my life when I heard they were with me.
S.K.
Planet of the Blind 
You just made me cry and laugh at the same time.
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