by Ethel Mortenson Davis
All the holy books
of the world
could fit on the tip
of a swallow’s wing
as she dips and sways,
diving for flying
insects.
All the wisdom of mankind
could balance on her
unpretentious head
as she cares for
her young
under the eves
of our house,
eyes showing no deception,
fighting off the blackness
that sits all around her.
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