When the sun returns

it is hallelujah time, the swallows tracing an arc of praise just off our balcony, the mountains snow-sparkling in gratitude. Here is our real life — a handful of possible peonies from the market — the life we always intended, swallow life threading the city air with our weaving joy. Are we this simple, then, to sing all day — country songs, old hymns, camp tunes? We even believe the swallows, keeping time.