Strawberry Mojito

She sleeps, her eyelids still warm from the light. The corners of the wall are silent. Three barn swallows brush against her face, as one might brush against cold water with toes. They leave in the air the trace of a playful dance. They used to nest in barns, under eaves. These refuges have been smoothed over. In thirty years, their colonies have dwindled by nearly half. Their flight tells of this absence. The woman, for her part, does not move. She sleeps. Is her sleep an escape? An oblivion? Or a slow blink, giving way to the flight of those who still have every right? To look up. To slow down. To welcome these birds who, each spring, call upon the city for shelter.