true barn swallow by all the keys — long forked tail, blue-black crown, rust throat — except for the colony itself, which lives not in a barn but in the louvers of the parish steeple. they leave with the first bell of the morning and return with the last bell of the evening, and there is some doubt whether they ever quite leave the building.
they hunt in great arcs over the square. they ride the warm air above slate. at midday they are over the school; at six they are over the river. the call is a long musical twittering, with a sharper vit at intervals. the bell, when it rings, scatters them only briefly.
each pair claims a single louver and returns to it. the nests are mud and feather, glued to the inside of stone. you can sit below the tower on a warm evening and watch them pour out together as the hour opens, dozens at once, the way seeds come out of a pod.
— counted them in at sundown. lost the count twice. — r., from the steps.