She assumes her position at the sink, everything greasy from the day’s befores. She scrubs at silver insides; the eternal circle from clean to unclean. The water pounds in and she thinks of the river; a rat’s tail – just the tail, moving through rushes.
Our swallow chicks have fledged already! It seems they were an early brood. One minute, Hubs and I were gazing up, trying to count the number of feathery faces; the next, we were looking at an empty nest.